


Viva la Vida

by iambluehead



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Blood and Gore, I'm Sorry, M/M, Prejudice, Rebel!zayn, Royalty AU, So much angst, everyone is forced to reconsider their world views and shit, i'm excessively poetic like always, it's set in modern day but there's an absolute monarch in england??, liam and harry get kidnapped by zayn and louis, niall knows too much about everything and no one knows anything about him, prince!liam, royal!liam, there's a lot of violence and struggling with right and wrong, which is accurate i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-05-17 03:12:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 123,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5851795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iambluehead/pseuds/iambluehead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Liam is not a princess, but needs saving anyway; everyone is just a pawn in a dangerous game of politics and brutality he’s not sure anyone knows how to play; there’s more than one side to everything and maybe no right side to anything; and you can find and love and learn to live without people even after you’ve lost them. And instead of a princess that needs saving, there might be a boy who never needed anything, except maybe something worth dying for.</p>
<p>(Or, Liam is the crown prince of England who gets kidnapped by rebels and finds out that the world is a big, ugly place full of beautiful, broken-up people who may never get a happily ever after, no matter how hard they try.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: Pillars of Salt and Pillars of Sand

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back! This time bearing a new chaptered fic that's been consuming my mind for like....a year. No joke. I came up with this last January. 
> 
> Not much to say except a lil bit of world building in case people are confused--like i say in the tags, this is set in modern day, but england is governed by an old-fashioned absolute monarchy because this is an au, so i can do what i like, and that's what was convenient for me. 
> 
> aaand the disclaimer: i own nothing, i know nothing, nothing is real, time is a man-made concept....you get the idea. ok that's all enjoy.

_“He’s too young,” the man who has his hands on Liam’s shoulders says, “I can’t take a boy in cold blood like this.”_  
  
_“They’re going to find us any minute now; if we haven’t gotten a message yet they must have failed. Either we take him, or all of this—and their deaths—was for nothing.”_  
  
_Liam doesn’t even dare to breathe. The second man—the one who isn’t touching him—lets out an impatient breath._  
  
_“Don’t tell me you’re going soft on me, Yaser.”_  
  
_“I’m not,” the man named Yaser says stubbornly. “But he’s the age of my boy, if that. I can’t take him like this in cold blood.”_  
  
_“You know that Emory and Natasha are probably dead, right? So this mission was in vain and they died for nothing?”_  
  
_“We don’t know if they’re dead,” Yaser says quietly. “And I will not let their deaths stand for the kidnapping of a child. We’re leaving him, Irving.”_  
  
_The man named Irving lets out a disgusted noise. “Let’s go, then.” He shoves past Liam, knocking Yaser’s hand off his shoulder. “Move it, boy.”_  
  
_Yaser turns and follows him, and then pauses for a moment at the door, looking back at Liam, who’s huddled shivering in the corner of his room. “I’m sorry, son,” he says finally._  
  
_There are the shouts of guards coming down the hall, and Yaser takes off running, gunshots following him down the corridor. Liam wonders, in a fear-thawed part of his brain, whether he’ll make it out alive._  
  
_He will never see Yaser again._  
  
***  
  
Liam wakes up jittery, annoyed, and unable to fall back asleep. It’s been the third time this week that he’s had the dream—startling in its clarity for a vision that has no basis in reality—and he’s more than sick of it. There’s something about the helplessness of it that bothers him; he doesn’t like even the imagined feeling of being at the mercy of others.  
  
Even though he’s sure that Harry’s already up, or that the guards would let him into the gym even at the early hour, he doesn’t get up and get on with his day, instead choosing to lie in bed and enjoy a rare moment of utter quiet. Liam’s usually an early riser who doesn’t like to waste a moment of the day, but there’s something about the dream that always drains him, like the terror he feels when he’s asleep takes away from his waking energy.  
  
He has to admit that it’s an oddly specific recurring dream—it’s always set in the blurry, grief-stricken weeks after his family’s death, always laced with the anticipation of whether or not the men will take him, always showing the same argument between the same men, Irving and Yaser. Liam would swear it was a memory if anyone he ever talked to had any recollection of a palace invasion in recent history, but no one does.  
  
It’s still a disturbing nightmare.  
  
He gets out of bed and rings the bell for a servant to bring breakfast, resolving to eat and have a quick workout before he goes to the throne room for the day—there’s no use in lingering on dreams longer than they last, as his uncle Simon says, and in any case court duty will be a hell of a lot more exhausting than anything some dream could cause.  
  
_Ready 4 gym? U better come w me before u go do king things, Harry’s text reads when he checks his phone._  
  
Liam grins and types out a swift reply as he gets dressed and thanks the servant for breakfast. It’s not his fault that he’s being groomed to be the king, and so has to sit in on one full day of royal court hearings once a week, but that doesn’t mean that Harry doesn’t hate the hours he has to spend alone when Liam’s occupied.  
  
_On my wayyy lemme eat brekkers first k_  
  
_See ya soon :D_  
  
Before long, the dream is slipping out of his mind like water through a pair of cupped hands, and he doesn’t give it a second thought as he leaves for the gym.  
  
***  
  
The workout with Harry is briefer than usual; for some reason they’re both lethargic today, working mainly on stretching more than anything else.  
  
“Is Duke Horan coming?”  
  
“No,” Harry says. “Something to do with arranging a meeting with the Irish ambassador. He said maybe tomorrow.”  
  
Niall Horan is the Irish duke that stays at the English court for half the year to improve English-Irish relations. He’s around Harry and Liam’s age, and while they don’t know him very well, he’s funny and smart and good fun to be around, so they let him drop in on their gym sessions and occasionally their movie marathons whenever the mood strikes him.  
  
“How long is court today?” Harry says as he smoothly transitions into the downward facing dog pose.  
  
“Dunno. All afternoon, probably.” Liam shrugs and grins ruefully. “Most of it is going to be hearing testimony from soldiers who made it back from the last mission.”  
  
“Which last mission?” Harry asks skeptically. “You’re sending so many out these days that I have trouble keeping track.”  
  
“The one we sent to take out the rebel base in York,” Liam says. “And I know there’s a lot. It sort of worries me that Uncle Simon is sending out so many, but refuses to even call the rebels an official threat to the throne.”  
  
Harry is possible the only person he calls the king “Uncle Simon” to; despite the fact that Simon is his uncle (and ever since his family died, a father figure). To everyone else, it’s “His Majesty.” Similarly, Harry may be one of the only people who calls Liam by his name rather than “His Highness.” It’s just the way it works with them—Liam’s a royal, and Harry’s a noble, but Harry’s never been deferential to him, and Liam’s never pulled rank on Harry. Liam likes to think that they treat each other like they’re normal friends in uni. Or at least as normal as you can get when you have guards standing outside the door of your gym as you work out.  
  
“Yeah, well, I don’t think he wants to worry people,” Harry says wisely. “Acknowledging the opposition only gives them more power.”  
  
“Yeah,” Liam says heavily, setting down his weight to do stretches beside Harry. “You have to acknowledge it at some point, though.”  
  
Harry just shrugs and gets into the tree pose. “I’m sure he’s doing the best thing.”  
  
“Doesn’t make court duty any more fun,” Liam says, trying to lighten the mood, and Harry—always predictably sunny when it comes to things like this—laughs and agrees, and the brief moment of tension passes.  
  
He may not be a normal kid in uni, but sometimes it feels good to be as carefree as one.  
  
***  
  
The testimonies are long, excruciating, and utterly predictable. Nearly every single time they’ve sent a regiment out to fight with the opposition, the rebels vanish like smoke and then strike in short, devastating ambushes until only a few of their men remain to tell the tale. Liam’s fairly sure at this point that they have a rebel informer among their advisors, but what can he do about it? It’s not like he and his uncle can lock themselves away to decide everything in secret.  
  
“I don’t know where they’re getting their weaponry, but it isn’t from any military source,” the commander of the latest mission says. He looks weary and his face is a bit bruised. “It seems to be makeshift and poor quality, but they sure as hell know how to use it.”  
  
Liam thinks it’s a good testimony to how tired and desperate the man is that he doesn’t so much as flinch when he realizes he’s sworn in front of the crown prince.  
  
“How many of them would you say there were?” he asks, promptly deciding to let the slip in etiquette go.  
  
The commander shakes his head slowly. “Frankly, it was hard to tell, Your Highness. With the confusion and the way they kept melting in and out of the landscape like something out of a movie, I’d say there was anywhere between twenty and a hundred.”  
  
“That’s a very rough estimate,” Liam says, disappointed. “And there were a hundred and fifteen of you? And they killed nearly half your regiment?”  
  
The commander nods curtly. “They had the advantage in everything but numbers, Your Highness. They had knowledge of the terrain, a well-rested force that worked like a single unit, creative attack techniques, and a few truly outstanding fighters that could have probably taken out our whole unit by themselves if they had to. These rebels aren’t the unhappy lower class citizens without education or training that everyone takes them for, Your Highness. They’re organized, determined, and highly skilled.”  
  
“How serious of a threat to the crown are they?” Liam asks flatly. When the commander hesitates, he adds, “I’m just asking your opinion, Commander. Nothing you say will be held against you in any way, shape, or form. I value the advice of military experts like you, no matter how much I do not want to hear it.”  
  
“You’re a good man, Your Highness,” the commander says gruffly. “But I think you really don’t want to hear my opinion this time.”  
  
Liam’s heart drops a little, but he keeps his face neutral, leaning forward a bit on the throne. “It’s necessary that you tell me, Commander. For the safety of everyone in England, I need to know the truth.”  
  
The commander sighs. “If it came to full-on war, I think we could win. They obviously have a smaller force and more untrained fighters, and they seem to rely on guerilla attacks rather than head-on warfare.” He pauses, pursing his lips. “However, I think they will avoid direct war for as long as they possibly can. And if we continue like this—with them picking off our forces one by one with little cost to them, and great cost to us—we would probably be weak enough for them to vanquish us in direct war in less than a year.” He bows slightly, his face set. “That is my professional and personal opinion, Your Highness. I do not doubt the bravery and skill of our men, but some things are inevitable no matter how courageous and well-trained you can be.”  
  
It’s Liam’s turn to sigh. “Very well, Commander. Thank you for your advice. You are dismissed.”  
  
The commander doesn’t move. “There’s one more of my men who’d like to speak to you, Your Highness, if that would be acceptable. He’s a good man, one of the best in our company.”  
  
Liam’s whole body aches from sitting on the cold, unforgiving throne all day, and all he wants to do is go flop down on Harry’s bed and complain, but he nods graciously and gestures to the guards to bring the man in. Most of the time, being a king means putting your people ahead of yourself, and the safety of England is of greater importance than his aching arse.  
  
“Thank you for seeing me, Your Highness.” The man is small and scruffy-looking, with one arm in a sling and a patch of hair shaved to reveal surgery stitches.  
  
“It’s my duty to always listen to the people,” Liam says with as much dignity as he can. “I heard that from your commander that you think you have some information that might be useful to the crown.”  
  
“Indeed I do, Your Highness.” The man rubs his hands together nervously and opens his mouth. Before he can speak, however, Liam interrupts him.  
  
“May I inquire your name and rank first, soldier?” he asks.  
  
“Oh—sir—I mean, Your Highness—the name’s Thomas Gellan. M’a private, Your Highness.”  
  
“Thank you, Private Gellan. Please continue.”  
  
“Right. Well, I was taken by the rebels for two days, Your Highness.” Private Gellan clears his throat. “I didn’t see much during that time, because I was usually in the back of a truck—they have non-military, unarmored vehicles for transportation; not the safest or most effective way, but they’d certainly go unnoticed if they were on a civilian road. But from what I did see, there are actually two separate rebel organizations, and with all due respect, I stress the word organization, Your Highness, because they’re certainly more organized and well-prepared than the crown’s intelligence had led us to believe.” There’s a formal, detached note in his voice as he says this; the longer he talks, the more he settles into the role of a soldier giving a standard report rather than someone giving bad news to someone so far his superior that Liam may as well be a god.  
  
“So there’s two organizations,” Liam says. “Does that affect our number estimations at all? What are the differences between the two in terms of methods, weaponry, goals, or ideology?”  
  
“I don’t know how it affects the numbers, Your Highness,” the private says wearily. “I don’t know what our original estimate was; I’m a private, so I do what I’m told and don’t ask questions.” For a moment, he looks guilty, as though regretting his irritable words, but then relaxes as Liam lets out a laugh. “From what I could tell, there’s a main group that shares a common goal, code of conduct, and camaraderie, and then a smaller group of people the main group calls the radicals. They were always more cruel to me—I think they hate anything to do with the crown—and from the snippets of information I heard, I think the ultimate goal of the radicals is to kill the entire royal family and as many nobles as they can, and start all over in the ashes that will be left over. They also seem more heavily armed, but I would risk a guess at saying that they seem not as good at combat in general than the main group of rebels. I wouldn’t swear on that, though.”  
  
“How did you escape, Private?”  
  
“There was a rough edge where some rusting had taken place on the truck I was on. They had my hands tied up all old-fashioned like, with some cord, so I sawed that off on the edge and then made a run for it when we stopped for the night a while away from their base.”  
  
“It certainly says something about their vigilance if you made it out without being caught,” Liam muses.  
“I didn’t,” Gellan says flatly. “There were guards, and I got spotted by one. Young bloke, couldn’t have been older than Duke Styles or you, maybe.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“He let me go,” he says, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides with remembered terror. “He pointed a gun at my head and told me to get on my knees with my hands up. All I could think was, like, that I was going to die without anyone knowing what had happened.” His voice shook a little. “That’s the worst feeling in the world, Your Highness. Knowing that you’re going to die without anyone to comfort you or ease your pain; knowing that you’re going to die bloody and violent and terrified, and no one will care or remember.” He shakes his head a little. “Anyway, the rebel told me that he was going to let me go, but only if I gave the crown a message.”  
  
When Gellan falls silent, Liam prompts, “What was the message?”  
  
“That the people were with them. He just looked me dead in the face and said, the people are with us. And then he told me to get up and run and never stop running, because if one of the others caught me, they wouldn’t be so kind.” He draws in a deep, shuddering breath. “I rejoined my company two days later. They’d been decimated by the rebels.”  
  
Liam is quiet for a long moment, and then says, “How would you say he meant the message?”  
  
“I think he meant that the people of England no longer support the crown, Your Highness.”  
  
“Would you say that’s true?”  
  
Gellan hesitates. “I don’t know, Your Highness. I live at the palace barracks most of the time; we don’t interact with civilians much. There’ll always be some dissonance against the crown, though, and I think they might be taking that discontent and interpreting it as support for their extremism.”  
  
Liam mulls this over for a moment, and then asks, “Is there anything else you need to tell me, Private?”  
  
Gellan nods somberly. “I did find out where they’re headed. Most of them are going to their base—where that is, I don’t know—but they’re also sending a small group out towards the palace. Not sure how many, or when they’ll be here, but I would suggest some tightened security around here, Your Highness.”  
  
“All right.” Liam suddenly feels a thousand years old, burdened down with the weight of the knowledge he’s acquired and heavy with worries about it. “Thank you for your bravery and information, Private. Is there anyone else in your regiment who wishes to speak with me?”  
  
“No, Your Highness.”  
  
“Very well.” He looks over to his right, where Count Griffith, one of his uncle’s advisors, is sitting. “Count, please announce that the court is closed for today.”  
  
“Certainly, Your Highness.”  
  
Liam stands up, bows to the court, and walks stiffly towards the door, his legs cramped from sitting all day. All he wants to do is go crawl into his bed and forget about the fact that one day, all these problems will be his to deal with and worry about. But before he can do that, he has to go tell Uncle Simon about this, because for now the two branches of the rebellion and their eerie messages and secret missions are Simon’s to deal with.  
  
Liam became the crown prince by a fluke that worked out fairly well for both himself and Simon—or at least, as well as it could have, considering that the whole incident was instigated by Liam’s parents and two sisters dying in terrorist attacks. It had been a period of upheaval in both Liam’s life and England’s history (maybe why so many people love Liam even if they aren’t crazy about Simon—they see him as sharing the suffering of the common people after that fateful day that destroyed his life as he knew it and put the future of England in his hands), but he hardly remembers the whole thing anymore. His family feels almost like a dream after ten years of living with Simon.  
  
It’d been an uneventful visit to the sleepy town of Wolverhampton—Liam’s still not sure why the attackers had chosen there to strike, or why they’d even been visiting in the first place. But one moment they’d been watching his father (Prince Geoff, Uncle Simon’s younger brother) give a speech about the crown’s plans for the town, and the next Liam was standing numbly at his sister’s side, covered in blood he still isn’t sure had been hers or his. The period in between these two moments are blank in Liam’s brain; his memories have been consumed by explosions. No one had been surprised—England had been involved in the oil struggles in the Middle East at the time, and after 9/11 most people had figured that there would be a similar attack on England. Liam just hadn’t thought that it would affect him so directly.  
  
Because Uncle Simon wasn’t married at the time, and seemed to have no plans to have children, Liam became the crown prince, and Simon had taken him in and treated him well. Many people have told Liam that Simon was never the same after the death of his brother, but Liam only remembers his uncle as he is now: sarcastic, a bit harsh, and fiercely protective of Liam. Sometimes this protectiveness extends to the extreme, the most prominent example being Simon’s refusal to let Liam go out of the palace very often, or talk to many common people. But their loyalty to each other is absolute. This is the life they have now, in the aftermath of a tragedy that left them both reeling, and they’ve done a good job with it.  
  
Liam pulls himself out of his fragmented memories in time to nod at the guards that stand outside of the king’s quarters and sweep inside after being buzzed in by Simon.  
  
“How did it go?” his uncle asks, looking up from the iPad on his desk and peering at Liam over the tops of his reading glasses.  
  
“Not so well, in terms of news,” Liam says, walking over to desk and standing before his uncle with his hands clasped behind his back. “I’ve got some new info on the rebel organization and goals.”  
  
Simon swears softly and leans forwards. “Let’s hear it, then.”  
  
Liam quickly relays the information he’d heard in the throne room, and then says, “So they’re far more structured than we thought, basically. And they think the people are on their side, which means that they’re practically impossible to convince they’re wrong. Once you think you’re representing the common will, you won’t give up on any terms.”  
Simon purses his lips. “I suppose that’s true.” There’s a note of concern in his voice, but it doesn’t seem to be the same sort as the anxiety that’s plaguing Liam.  
  
“What’re you thinking?” Liam asks softly after a moment, even though there’s not much of a chance of him getting an answer.  
  
Simon is silent for a long pause, and then says, “You don’t think that the rebels are a serious threat, do you?”  
  
Liam blinks. “I mean—”  
  
“We are the English royals, Liam. The people are always behind us. Always have been. Always will be. We are untouchable. I wouldn’t worry about these angry farmers if I were you.”  
  
“They’re not just—”  
  
“Liam—”  
  
“They’re _coming_ for us,” Liam bursts out. “We have to _do_ something, Uncle Simon! We can’t just be sitting here waiting for them to come!”  
  
“Thank you for your report, Your Highness,” Simon says with an air of finality. “I will see you at dinner.”  
  
Liam bites back an ill-advised protest and bows stiffly. “As always, Your Majesty.” He puts as much biting force into the title as he can, and then walks out briskly, fists clenched at his sides.  
  
***  
  
Dinner is chilly and overly formal. They address each other by their titles and smile so coldly that Liam’s surprised the servants don’t freeze.  
  
It’s not that he thinks he can do a better job managing this whole than Simon, it’s just that blindly denying that there’s a problem doesn’t seem like the most efficient way to solve one. He doesn’t want to tell Simon what to do—he just wants Simon to do _something_.  
  
That pig-headed stubbornness is part of the personality that surfaced after Geoff’s death, Liam’s been told. Along with the unshakable belief that the crown is always right and commoners should be grateful for everything the king provides, it’s one of his more annoying traits, but Liam tries not to hold it against him. Everyone deals with grief differently; Liam blocks things out, and Simon gets angry.  
  
Sometimes too angry.  
  
Liam takes a late night trip down to the gym that night, and hears the screams coming from Simon’s room.  
  
He keeps walking.  
  
***  
  
_“He’s too young,” the man who has his hands on Liam’s shoulders says, “I can’t take a boy in cold blood like this.”_  
  
_“They’re going to find us any minute now; if we haven’t gotten a message yet they must have failed. Either we take him, or all of this—and their deaths—was for nothing—_  
  
Liam’s uneasiness about the whole affair must permeate into his dreams that night, because he ends up having his dream again. The only difference is that he’s not quite sure if he’s completely asleep or not, because he’s intensely aware that he’s having a dream. Something in him is screaming to wake up, and yet it seems like he can’t seem to move an inch.  
  
_Liam doesn’t even dare to breathe. The second man—the one who isn’t touching him—lets out an impatient breath._  
  
_“Don’t tell me you’re going soft on me, Yaser.”_  
  
He knows it’s a dream, he knows that, but he could swear that there’s someone in his room right now, it just feels so real—  
  
_"I’m not,” the man named Yaser says stubbornly. “But he’s the age of my boy, if that. I can’t take him like this in cold blood.”_  
  
_“You know that Emory and Natasha are probably dead, right? So this mission was in vain and they died for nothing?”_  
  
Liam can feel himself shaking in his covers, but he can also feel Yaser’s hand on his shoulder, can hear whispers of other people in the hallway. He can feel dread building up in his stomach, more intensely than he usually feels it during this dream.  
  
_“We don’t know if they’re dead,” Yaser says quietly. “And I will not let their deaths stand for the kidnapping of a child. We’re leaving him, Irving.”_  
  
Wait. What whispers? There are no other people in this dream. He can never hear anyone else until the end, when he can hear the guards coming to save him. And the sound can’t be from the waking world because—  
  
_The man named Irving lets out a disgusted noise. “Let’s go, then.” He shoves past Liam, knocking Yaser’s hand off his shoulder. “Move it, boy.”_  
  
—the guards don’t talk at night—  
  
_Yaser turns and follows him, and then pauses for a moment at the door, looking back at Liam, who’s huddled shivering in the corner of his room. “I’m sorry, son,” he says finally._  
  
And now Liam can feel a fear like he’s never felt before, a mixture of paralyzing terror from the dream and a horror of something that’s coming right now, something that’s not right in real life that he can’t seem to wake up to deal with.  
  
_There are the shouts of guards coming down the hall, and Yaser takes off running, gunshots following him down the corridor. Liam wonders, in a fear-thawed part of his brain, whether he’ll make it out alive._  
  
_He will never—_  
  
The door in real life creaks open and someone steps inside without knocking or announcing themselves, and that’s how Liam knows that something’s actually wrong.  
  
_—see Yaser again._  
  
He wakes up with a jolt, his heart pounding in his chest. There’s a figure standing in the darkness at the end of bed in a cruel mimicry of his dream, except that this is all too real, and he can see the glint of a gun in the person’s hand.  
  
“Your Highness,” a quiet, even voice says. “I would appreciate if you didn’t make any noise.”  
  
Slowly, and without speaking or being told to, Liam sits up and raises his hands above his head.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 2! Is anyone proud of me for sticking to my update schedule? 
> 
> There's honestly not much to say about this one, other than it picks up right where the last one left off. A bit of action, some more set up, a touch of introspection, and a short car chase. Good fun to write and hopefully good fun to read. But you'll be the judge of that. 
> 
> I own nothing, I know nothing, this is all made up, and all that.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” the man says, his voice still steady and soft and thickened by the lilt of a Northern accent. “Would you mind getting out of bed with your hands still raised, please?”  
  
His tone is so polite and conversational that they might have been talking about the weather, but Liam doesn’t allow himself to be deceived by the façade. This man has a gun, and from the easy way he’s holding it, he’s not afraid to use it.  
  
“Do you have anything you can pack a few things in? Just enough for a few days.”  
  
Liam swallows hard and doesn’t say anything. He’s been told not to speak, and he’s not going to put using a trick question as an excuse to shoot him past this man.  
  
His assailant, seeming to understand this, adds, “I’d appreciate a quiet yes or no answer, Your Highness.”  
  
“Yeah,” Liam says, his voice rough with sleep but impressively steady.  
  
“Please pack your things then. And be quick.”  
  
Liam opens his closet and pulls out an overnight bag, exceedingly conscious of the man’s gun subtly trained on him. With shaking hands, he stuffs his bag with some clothes and toiletries, his breath coming quick and quiet and shuddery. This whole night has had the surreal feeling of a dream, and he can’t help but think that the unconscious and the real world are overlapping.  
  
“Are you done?”  
  
“Yeah,” Liam says. He wonders if it’s obvious how terrified he is, how he’s drenched in sweat and shaking. He wonders if he should be putting up a fight right now. Wonders if the man is expecting him to, thinks less of him for not protesting at least a little. Wonders why he cares what the man thinks, and then realizes that despite the situation, he is still being a prince. And princes care what their subjects think of them.  
  
“Turn around, please, and put your hands behind your back.”  
  
Liam does as he’s told, and then feels his hands being zip tied behind him, tight enough that he won’t be able to get out but loose enough that it won’t be painful unless he struggles.  
  
“You’re going to walk out the door in front of me,” the man says, still in that calm, quiet voice that now has a hint of steel beneath its silk. “You are not going to make any noise, and you will do exactly as I tell you. Do you understand me, Your Highness?”  
  
“Yes,” Liam says, and then clamps his lips together to swallow down the bitterness that comes with complying so easily. _He has a gun,_ he reminds himself. _You can’t be a martyr right now. You owe the people of England to stay alive. You are their future._ The thought gives him some strength, and so the humiliation and fear that comes with being prodded out of his bedroom at two in the morning with the barrel of a gun at his back is softened a little.  
  
The guards that should be protecting him are gone from the hallway; whether they’re been killed or drugged or somehow tricked away, he’s not sure and probably doesn’t want to know. The man guides him down the shadowy hallway, around a sharp corner, down a flight of stairs he didn’t even know existed, and then out of a door that apparently leads to the outside, because the next thing Liam feels is a blast of chilly air through his thin T-shirt. He has trouble believing that this man could have gotten rid of all the guards in the vicinity, but there are none to be seen, even outside—no, he sees the man slipping a single guard a sack of bills, and then exchanging a fist bump.  
  
Well. That explains that.  
  
“Tell the Duke I say thanks for making this so easy,” Liam’s kidnapper says to the guard quietly, and then Liam’s being pushed outside and into the garish glow of the streetlights.  
  
For the first time, he gets a clearer view of his kidnapper, not that it helps much—the man’s wearing all black, with a hood that’s pulled low over his eyes and a bandana that covers the lower half of his face. Liam would laugh at the clichéd air of it all, but once again, the man has a gun and this is too real to laugh at. The man is a little shorter and wirier than Liam is, but from the lithely graceful way he moves, Liam’s willing to bet that attempting to punch him or something similar would probably end up worse for Liam than it would for his kidnapper.  
  
There’s a bread van waiting for them on the curb; Liam is pushed into the back and the man gets into the front seat. There’s already a driver inside, and slumped onto the floor of the van next to Liam is—  
  
“Harry?” Liam says incredulously, and not without horror.  
  
Harry looks up, his eyes red and nose running. “L-Liam,” he says with a smile that tries to be brave. “I was hoping they wouldn’t get you.”  
  
“Why did they—”  
  
“Quiet back there,” the driver says. He has a higher voice with a Northern accent, similar to the one Liam’s assailant had been sporting.  
  
“Why did you take Harry?” Liam blurts out. “I mean, I get me, but—”  
  
“Didn’t I say to be quiet?”  
  
He falls silent, bowing his head and then leaning it up against Harry’s shoulder in a futile gesture of comfort.  
  
“Let’s go,” Liam’s assailant says, and the driver starts pulling away from the curb. Liam is desperately fighting the panic that’s rising in his throat with every inch they move away from the palace—the suffocating knowledge of his own helplessness is paralyzing him. If he screams, no one will hear him. If he struggles, he might get shot. There’s no way to escape, no way to move, no way to breathe.  
  
His hands are losing feeling from the bonds around his wrists, but the prickle from the blood loss helps clear his head a bit. The best thing he can do right now is stay alive. People will be looking for them as soon as they realize he’s gone, which will be in the morning at the latest. Once it’s discovered that he and Harry are missing, the whole country will be up in arms. He tries to take some comfort in this knowledge, but seeing as it’s hard to even inflate his lungs against the weight of fear against his chest, the morning seems a little far off.  
  
“How are we doing?” the driver asks the other man, who now has a laptop open, the screen of which Liam’s can’t see from his current position.  
  
“Still clear for now. If we can get even an hour or two outside of the city before they notice we’ll be doing good.”  
  
The driver takes a deep breath and nods briskly, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. “Reckon I should pick up the pace a little, then.”  
  
The other man laughs a little and goes back to whatever he’s doing on the computer. Liam is shaking with rage—what right do they have to be joking about this? What right do they have to be making light of doing this to innocent people? What kind of monsters take two blameless young men out of their beds at night and then laugh together like they’re playing a particularly delightful uni prank?  
  
“They’ll catch you no matter how fast you go, you know,” he says loudly, the high of his anger dispelling the fear that previously had sealed his lips shut. “You may as well pull over and wait to be arrested.”  
  
The driver doesn’t bother responding, but the man sitting in the passenger seat twists to look at Liam. It’s eerie that Liam still can’t see his face behind the hood and bandana, but he meets the man’s gaze steadily anyway.  
  
“What makes you say that?” the other man asks, his voice still calm and polite like it had been in Liam’s bedroom. He sounds almost genuinely curious, like the idea of his heist being anything but successful is so ridiculous he can’t quite believe someone is disputing it.  
  
“I’m the crown prince,” Liam says, his voice laced with incredulity. “The crown will tear country apart at the seams to get me back if it has to.”  
  
The man regards him for a moment, and then simply says, “The crown has already done that.”  
  
***  
  
Somehow, despite his bound hands and choking fear and resolution to pay attention to his surroundings, Liam falls asleep, slumped awkwardly on the van floor with his head lolling on Harry’s shoulder and his mouth open. It’s a nervous, restless sort of slumber, laced with uncomfortable dreams and brief waking periods where he hears the murmurs of men in the front of the truck without fully understanding them. At some point he’s aware of Harry gently moving his head off his shoulder and stretching, but he falls back asleep too quickly to apologize for using his friend as a pillow.  
  
In all, he’s not quite sure how much time has passed when someone shakes him awake—all he knows is that for a few blissful moments in between waking and sleeping, he is not afraid of what’s coming.  
  
Sleep tends to drug you like that sometimes.  
  
“Wake up, Your Highness.”  
  
Someone’s shaking his shoulder much too roughly for him to back in his bed—  
  
“S’time?” Liam mumbles, trying to stretch and then realizing his hands are still bound. His shoulders give a sullen twinge from being twisted back for so long, and the fear comes rushing back like an ocean wave, cold and overwhelming and flavored with the salty twinge of sweat.  
  
“Six in the morning. We’ve stopped for a bit; if you’d like to get out and use the bathroom, now would be a good time. Louis is inside buying food right now, so I’ll escort you in.”  
  
Liam blinks, the face of the man in front of him sliding into focus. His expression is serious and his eyes fixed on Liam unwaveringly; one half of his face is illuminated by the car park lights from the open door of the van, all razor-sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw, and the other half is thrown into darkness, spindly shadows from his lashes chasing each other across his skin when he blinks. It’s hard to see him clearly, what with the poor lighting and Liam’s sleep-addled brain, but he knows for sure that he’s never seen this man before in his life.  
  
“Who are you?” Liam asks stupidly.  
  
“I could probably be classified as your kidnapper,” the man says. Oh, right. Of course Liam hadn’t recognized him without his mask on. He’s much younger than Liam had thought—no older than Liam himself. “Would you like to use the bathroom, or not?”  
  
“I—yeah, all right.” Liam swallows his pride at the thought of being _escorted_ into the bathroom, and climbs awkwardly out of the van. “Where’s Harry?”  
  
“He went inside with my friend,” the man replies, turning Liam around to take off the zip ties. Liam shakes out his arms in relief and winces as he massages the feeling back into his hands, relishing in the ability to stretch. “Sorry about those. Necessary precaution.” The man gestures towards the Tesco’s at the other side of the car park. “After you, Your Highness.”  
  
Liam slowly starts walking towards the store, eyes scanning his surroundings for possible escape routes, people to shout to, a getaway vehicle.  
  
“Oh—if you try to run, or communicate with anyone, I’ve got a gun. Just so you know.”  
  
“You wouldn’t shoot me in a place like this,” Liam says, trying to show a confidence he doesn’t feel. “Not with everyone watching.” You can’t be that insane.  
  
“Try me,” his kidnapper says, steel in his voice.  
  
Well—he could be bluffing, but Liam isn’t willing to take that chance. He has Harry to think about, anyway. If he tries to escape, he could be bringing certain death down upon his best friend.  
  
As if sensing Liam’s fear, the man adds, “I am sorry about all this, Your Highness. I wish there was some other way to do this, but there’s not, so just know that I don’t want to hurt you.”  
  
“But if you have to, you will,” Liam says. “So that’s not very reassuring.”  
  
He can’t see the man’s face, because he’s still walking in front of him, but he thinks he hears the man sigh. “Yeah, well, I never did have the best bedside manner.”  
  
“A great to start improving on that would be to stop kidnapping people.”  
  
The man snorts. “I’ll keep that in mind.”  
  
“You know,” Liam says lightly as they walk into the Tesco’s, “I don’t think that you would actually shoot me if I tried to run. That’d be suicide for you.”  
  
“Want to test it out?”  
  
“No. But, you know, the police would be called and the whole thing would turn out very badly for you. I just think that shooting someone in a crowded Tesco’s is too crazy, even for you.”  
  
“As crazy as kidnapping the crown prince from the royal palace and making a getaway in a bread van?”  
  
Liam sighs. “You have a point.”  
  
“And Tesco’s isn’t even that crowded at this time,” his kidnapper grumbles as they walk into the bathroom. “You have three minutes. Don’t try anything funny.”  
  
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Liam says, and trots over to the urinal. His hands are shaking, but his head is strangely clear. It’s obvious what he has to do here—stay alive, keep Harry alive, and wait for rescue. If the opportunity for freedom presents itself clearly—without too much danger for him or Harry—than he’ll take it, but obviously he’s more useful dead than alive and free to these people, and he does have enough sense to realize that trying and failing to escape would end very badly, his pride be damned.  
  
When he washes his hands and turns around, an uncommonly beautiful young man is standing behind him, eyes narrowed with exhaustion but chin tilted up haughtily. If it hadn’t been for his scruffy clothes and the hand tucked under his jacket to where a gun is doubtlessly concealed, Liam’s kidnapper wouldn’t have looked out of place on a high-fashion runway, or an awards show red carpet. It throws Liam off for a second—he’d expected a cruel-faced thug with heavy fists and broad shoulders, not this slender young man with tired eyes and slender limbs and a beauty so sharp he pulls the world around him into focus and makes the background go fuzzy.  
  
_Evil comes in many forms, and the most dangerous ones are the most beautiful,_ Liam thinks, not sure where the snippet of wisdom came from, but recognizing its truth all the same. The fact that this man doesn’t _look_ like a killer means nothing. He himself admitted his willingness to shoot Liam through the head at a moment’s notice.  
  
“Done?” the kidnapper asks, quirking an eyebrow at him.  
  
“I suppose so,” Liam says blankly.  
  
“Then we’re going back to the van. My friend and your friend are already there. They have food.” He gives Liam a once over. “Are you hungry?”  
  
The minute he’s asked, Liam becomes aware of a persistent emptiness in his stomach. Still, he’d like nothing better than to refuse the food out of spite—but he can’t if he wants to stay alive and alert. If it comes down to him making a bolt for it, it won’t do to try and make it on an empty stomach and shaky legs. “I suppose so,” he repeats.  
  
“Remember what I said about trying to make a run for it while we’re walking back.”  
  
“Refresh my memory again?” Maybe if he can keep the man talking for long enough, keep him distracted, gain his trust . . .  
  
“Me, you, gun. I’m sure that’s a sufficient refresher. Now shut up and walk.”  
  
“Don’t you have to take a piss?”  
  
“I went before I woke you up,” the man says, “and I never thought I’d hear the crown prince say the phrase _take a piss_.”  
  
“And I never thought I’d be kidnapped by a snarky commoner with a gun he keeps talking about but I have yet to see. The world is full of surprises.”  
  
“I’ll show it to you in the van. Until then, keep it in your pants, Your Highness.”  
  
Liam chokes on his own spit.  
  
***  
  
Harry is unharmed and untied and very much alive in the back of the van when they return; Liam hadn’t realized how much he’d been worrying until he sees his friend and his knees go weak with relief.  
  
“Get in there,” the man says, giving him a little shove, and Liam scrambles in next to Harry, happy that he’s left untied.  
  
“There’s food,” Harry says, his voice a little hoarse, like he’s either been screaming or has just woken up. He holds out a banana, and Liam takes it almost without thinking.  
  
“What’d you get?” the man—Liam really needs to find a better thing to call him, honestly—asks his friend, the driver, the one he’d called Louis. He hops into the passenger’s seat and Louis starts backing out of his parking spot.  
  
“Bread, peanut butter, bananas—His Grace wanted a peanut butter and banana sandwich, and who am I to argue with royalty? Oh, and cereal, and water, and a pack of ciggies.”  
  
“Nobility,” Harry says automatically, swallowing his bulging mouthful before he speaks. “Liam’s the royalty around here.”  
  
“Whatever,” Louis says with an airy wave of the hand that belies the force he turns a corner with. “It’s all the same. You wanted a sandwich and I got you a sandwich, that’s all that matters.”  
  
“What matters here is that we’re your prisoners,” Liam says sharply. “Not your friends. So by all means, don’t feel obliged to indulge us in any way. Your friend there made it very clear to me that our comfort is not your priority.”  
  
“Showing the big guns so soon, Knockout?” Louis says with a sly grin, shooting the other man a slit-eyed look of amusement.  
  
“I may have told him I’d shoot him if he ran,” the other man—Knockout—says, “but like, in a jovial, friendly way. I made sure he knew it was nothing personal. Gimme a fag?”  
  
Louis gives him a cigarette and an easy smile.  
  
“But it _is_ something personal,” Liam bursts out. “You chose to kidnap us out of everyone you could have gone for, so it’s very fucking personal to me, thanks.”  
  
“You are the chattiest prisoner I have ever met,” Louis says, a tone of amazement coloring his words. “And I just spent fifteen minutes being bothered for bananas by His Curliness, over there.”  
  
“His Grace is equally offended by your actions,” Liam says, all the ice of Simon’s coldest rages in his voice. “I would suggest you address him with the proper title and respect.”  
  
In response, Louis digs a handful of Frosted Flakes out of the bag and shoves them in his mouth loudly.  
  
“Your Highness, with all due respect, this is purely political, and nothing to do with your personal character,” Knockout says, spreading peanut butter on a slice of bread. “So if I could make a suggestion here, it’d be a good idea for you be quiet and eat now.”  
  
And so, because Liam has resolved to stay alive, after all, he does what he’s never really done before in his life, and follows the instructions of a commoner.  
  
***  
  
“Louis, we have a problem.”  
  
It sounds so calm and cliché when Knockout says it, like something from a movie— _Houston, we have a problem_ —but the words instantly send a thrill of fear through Liam’s body, the shock quickly chased by a glint of hope: what’s bad for their kidnappers can only be good for Liam and Harry.  
  
“All right, what’s up?”  
  
“The prince was spotted at Tesco’s and now they’re in the area. We might get stopped and searched.”  
  
They’re talking in low voices, but in the tiny enclosed space it’s loud enough for Liam to hear if he strains his ears a little; a glance at Harry tells him that the other man is doing the same.  
  
“Well, then, we pull over somewhere and chill for a while, just wait for them to pass.”  
  
A brief shake of the head. “Not gonna work. When I say they’re in the area, I mean we’re within their range.”  
  
Louis swears, a short, loud, explosive exhalation that makes Liam jump a little. “Well, God damn it, Zayn, why didn’t you see them before?”  
  
“Royal police cars? Please, they have the best radar deflection in the world. We’re lucky I got a reading at all.”  
  
Louis swears again. “How many?”  
  
“Too many.”  
  
Louis drums his fingers against the steering wheel, blowing out a long breath. Liam can see Knockout (or maybe it’s Zayn, because Louis called him that, too, and Knockout seems more like a nickname rather than a real name, after all) putting ammo in his gun, and despite the tiny blossom of hope in his chest, feels a twinge of fear. If it comes to a shootout, he’s not sure that these two have the common sense to hand him and Harry over rather than fighting to the bitter end—and if it gets to that point, there’s no guarantee of any of them walking out alive.  
  
“Do you trust me?” Louis asks, hands tightening on the wheel and eyes fixed on the road.  
  
“You know it.”  
  
“Then hang on,” Louis says grimly, and they’re off.  
  
When Liam says off, he literally means _off_ —they fly off the side of the highway at full speed and go screeching onto a side road, weaving dangerously around other cars and running through a red light despite the oncoming traffic. Liam’s heart is in his throat, hammering away so loudly he thinks it might choke him; Louis may be skilled at getting away from a police force, but he’s by no means skilled at providing a comfortable ride—he and Harry are thrown all around the back of the van with such force that Liam’s sure they’ll have bruises.  
  
There are police sirens screeching behind them now, and Liam’s heart leaps at the exact same moment that the two kidnappers in the front swear in perfect unison; the juxtaposition of the whole thing would have made Liam laugh if the situation wasn’t so fucking serious. They don’t even so much as glance back at Harry and Liam, which makes him realize that as serious as this is for him, it may be more serious for them. Liam will probably—probably—make it out alive regardless of whether they’re caught or not; or, at least he’ll be alive for now, because they don’t seem to be in a hurry to kill him or Harry unless they try to escape. If the police catch them, Louis and Zayn are most likely as good as dead. It’s more than just a matter of freedom for the commoners—it’s a matter of life and death.  
  
Maybe that explains the roughness, the urgency of the chase, or maybe that’s just the air of all police chases, because don’t all criminals have something massive and precious on the line? Either way, the bread van is weaving in and out of traffic, cutting corners, and never once slamming on the brakes. It’s like some kind of death race.  
After what feels like hours, they slow. The police sirens faded long ago—long enough that Liam has finished swallowing the massive burden of disappointment that comes with realizing imminent rescue is impossible for not—and they’ve just finished ripping through a small town that’s miles from the highway.  
  
“Think they noticed that?” Louis asks casually.  
  
“It was sort of hard to miss,” Zayn says. “We’re on their suspect list for sure now, but at least now we’re far enough away that we’ll be able to throw them off a bit more.”  
  
“Sometimes you have to throw subtlety in the bin and take the desperate route,” Louis agrees.  
  
“Speaking of routes, we’re severely off course from ours. We’ll have to figure out a way to get back to base from here that doesn’t use the main highways, since those are being patrolled now. Not to mention we’ll have to use the other license plate from now on, because they definitely got ours.” Zayn pauses, thinking for a moment. “Take a break for the night? I’ll switch the plates, drive a bit, and everyone else can get some sleep.”  
  
“Sounds perfect.”  
  
They pull over and change drivers; the two men joke around a little and stretch as they get out of the van, but Liam can see the defeated slump in their shoulders and the bags under their eyes. They’re tired, and this isn’t an easy thing to pull off, after all.  
  
Maybe a chance to escape will present itself sooner than he’d thought.  
  
***  
  
Liam hadn’t really expected that they would have been driving for this long—honestly, he’s surprised that they haven’t run out of England to drive through at this point—but the fact that they have to keep taking detours and reroutes to avoid police explains at least a part of the length of their hellish road trip. Still, he sleeps better than he did the first night, although that’s probably mainly due to the fact that his hands aren’t tied this time around. Sleep, he has to remind himself, is good. It’ll put him out of commission for a few hours, but he has to stay alert. The only way he can take advantage of his captors’ exhaustion is if he’s awake himself.  
  
As he falls asleep, however, he thinks of Simon for the first time since his capture. He wonders if his uncle is worried—not only about him, but about the future of the country, about what will happen if Liam for some reason never comes back. He wonders if his uncle is thinking about him at this moment. Wonders if they’re thinking of each other even as they move apart. But buried under all that hope and nostalgia is a hidden kernel of resentment when Liam remembers how Simon had brushed off the warning that the rebels were getting closer to the castle. Look where it got him—Liam is sitting in the back of a bread van with filthy clothes and an empty stomach and sore limbs, and even though his kidnappers haven’t identified with any particular sect, it’s likely that he’s in the hands of rebels. Maybe, just maybe, if Simon had amped up the guard force, this wouldn’t have happened.  
  
But the world is full of what-ifs and lost chances, and it won’t do him any good to dwell on any of them. This may be partially Simon’s fault, but before anyone else it’s the fault of the monstrous young men who are even now sending them racing away from everything Liam has ever called home.  
  
“Liam?” Harry hasn’t said much since they’ve been taken; Liam can’t blame him, really. It’s easier to be quiet when you’re afraid. He’s not sure how his own fear hasn’t overcome him already. Maybe because he’s still trying to be a king. A king would not let himself be swallowed in terror.  
  
A king with no palace and no power and no throne.  
  
“Yeah?” Liam says quietly; Louis is asleep but he doesn’t want Zayn to hear. This is one thing their kidnappers will not be able to take or corrupt. He and Harry will always have each other’s backs.  
  
“Are you awake?”  
He smiles into the darkness of the van. “Obviously.”  
  
“Do you remember when that time when you first came to the palace, right after the attack, and we’d just become friends, and there was a thunderstorm one night? And everyone thought you would be afraid because they thought the thunder would trigger your memories of the bomb?”  
  
“I remember that,” Liam says.  
  
“So they sent me to go spend the night with you, but I was secretly afraid of thunderstorms.” Harry laughs a little, quietly and privately into the dark. “And you weren’t afraid at all. So it was you who spent the night comforting me. You remember that?”  
  
“Of course I remember.”  
  
There’s a long silence. Liam wonders why Harry has brought this back now of all times.  
  
“Liam?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m glad you’re here with me.”  
  
And Liam wonders if maybe it doesn’t take a palace and power and a throne to be a king. Sometimes, being a good king is like being a good friend—it’s being able to make things better for other people, even if you have nothing but your presence and your empty words to offer.  
  
“I was scared that night too,” he says finally. “But you were too, so one of us had to not be scared. So I decided it would be me.” He draws in a deep breath and stares at the ceiling of the van, latticed with the shifting shadows and light from the street lamps. “I’m glad you’re with me too, Harry. I’m glad we’re together.”  
  
“It would be terrible to be alone,” Harry says, reaching over and squeezing Liam’s shoulder.  
  
“It would,” Liam agrees. “And that’s what friends are for, anyway. Making each other less afraid.”  
  
They don’t speak again after that, but just as he falls asleep, Liam thinks he sees Zayn glance over at Louis’ sleeping figure and pull a jacket over him with one hand.  
  
Maybe that’s why the rebels sent two men on this mission. So they could make each other less afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's all, folks! tell me what you think :)) 
> 
> also a headsup: I'm debating over how i should be dividing up this fic because there are two major parts to it, so next week I'll probably be asking you guys how you'd prefer me to be doing it. So i guess that's something just to keep in mind while i narrow down my options as to how to do it. 
> 
> as always, my tumblr is [here](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com) , and the tumblr post for this fic is [here](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com/post/138359894039/viva-la-vida-by-iambluehead-pairing-zaynliam) . feel free to give either of those links a lil click ;) 
> 
> thanks for reading, and all the lovely comments/kudos you left last week, and i will see you soon!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh sorry for uploading a day late! unsurprisingly, real life sometimes gets in the way of writing (shocking, i know). Hopefully you all aren't too mad at me. just pretend i waited to upload bc i wanted it to be a Valentine's gift, because you're all my Valentines (i don't care if you have another one or not, I'm your Valentine now). 
> 
> This one's a bit of a short one, but it's full of inner turmoily goodness, more background info, and other lovely stuff. Hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> disclaimer: i strongly suspect I am not Simon Cowell, so therefore none of the one direction band/franchise belong to me. But you already knew that. Onwards to the story!

“That’s not very fucking funny, Louis.”  
  
“Yeah, well, it was to me.” A slight snort. “You should have seen your face.”  
  
“I hate you.”  
  
“You love me.”  
  
“I _hate_ you.”  
  
Liam wakes up to the sound of spirited bickering. His captors are, apparently, having a rough morning.  
  
“I just drove the whole goddamn night and this is how you repay me? Really fuckin’ nice, Louis.”  
  
Louis, to his credit, has the decency to look a bit shamefaced for whatever he’s done. “Pull over and let me drive, then. You’re not yourself when you’re tired.” He grins a little at his joke, and Zayn rolls his eyes.  
  
“Trust me, we’re switching at the first available exit.”  
  
“What happened?” Liam asks, stretching and yawning. They both turn and look at him; there are dark circles under Zayn’s eyes, and he looks extremely pissed off.  
  
“This genius thought it’d be funny to tell me there are no gas stations for the next fifty kilometers when we’re basically running on an empty tank. Just about gave me a heart attack.” Zayn shoots Louis a glare. “Attacking me when I’m tired, honestly. Below the damn belt.”  
  
“What’s even the fun in that?” Liam asks before he remembers that he’s supposed to hate these people.  
  
“That was my thinking exactly,” Zayn says with another dirty look in Louis’ direction. “There was no point at all.”  
  
“Sure there was,” Louis chirps with far too much peppiness for someone who’s slept the whole night in a van driving over an extremely bumpy highway. “The look on your face was priceless, I’m telling you.”  
  
Zayn mutters something that sounds like a suggestion that Louis do something anatomically impossible.  
  
“Are you brothers?” Liam blurts out. _You’re supposed to hate them. You’re not supposed to know anything about them that could make them human_.  
  
They both burst out laughing.  
  
“We’re definitely not brothers,” Zayn says. “What makes you ask? Surely not the family resemblance? Cause I’m not _nearly_ as white as he is, thanks.”  
  
“No, you just bicker like siblings,” Liam says with a faint grin. “My sisters and I used to go at it like that all the time.”  
  
Zayn shoots him a smile in the rear-view mirror. “Yeah, me and me sisters were like that too.”  
  
“Were?”  
  
Zayn shrugs, pulls into the nearest exit, and yawns. “Yeah.” He doesn’t elaborate, but Louis picks up where he leaves off.  
  
“We are basically brothers, though. Zayn’s been living with me and me family for—what, how many years now?”  
  
“God, dunno. Ten, maybe?”  
  
“Yeah, sounds about right. So he’s like me adopted brother. He bickers with me sister like this, too. Although they all spoil him like you wouldn’t believe.”  
  
“I’ve always said you’re my least favorite Tomlinson,” Zayn says in a fond tone that makes Liam think that it’s quite the opposite.  
  
He hates how human this is making both his kidnappers seem. Two normal blokes with loves and losses and families of their own. If this was a movie, they would have no redeeming qualities, nothing to give Liam any qualms about someone putting a bullet between both of their eyes the minute they all get caught.  
  
Things are rarely as simple as the movies in real life, he’s beginning to find out. Everything is messy and tangled up and crooked.  
  
“Okay, everyone out. Time to stretch our legs.” Louis says as they pull into a deserted parking lot. “No toilet, I’m afraid, but I’m sure Your Highness will have few reservations about using the bushes like we all do? No? Excellent. Wake up His Curliness over there, and I’ll go get breakfast.”  
  
“And I,” Zayn says, “will keep an eye on you until he returns, and then promptly pass the fuck out in the front seat.” Liam raises an eyebrow at him, and he shrugs. “Forty-some hours of wakefulness has not been kind to me.”  
  
“You do realize that that basically sounds like an invitation to make a run for it? Or to take my chances trying to fight you or something?”  
  
“I wouldn’t suggest that,” Zayn says with a crooked smile. “I may be half-dead, but they don’t call me Knockout for nothing.”  
  
“That so? What, can you knock someone out in single blow?”  
  
“Something like that,” Louis says. “Also, his stunning good looks have been known to knock out some of the weaker members of society. I mean, get a load of those eyelashes. They’ve laid low many a worthier man than you, Your Highness.”  
  
“I’ll keep that in mind when making my escape plans,” Liam says wryly. He mimes checking off a list of items on his hand. “Watch out for the guns your kidnappers carry—done. Make sure you bring Harry with you—done. Be careful of the devastating good looks that could distract you from your plan to return home at any cost—oh, God damn it, I’ve been foiled again.”  
  
“That’s only funny because it’s true,” Louis says with a quick, teasing smile that reminds Liam of the way Gatsby is described by Nick Carroway—he feels as though Louis has seen into him, past the façade of royal propriety, and understood him. It’s a feeling that’s comforting as it is ridiculous. “I’ll be back with breakfast, bitches. Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”  
  
“He’s joking, of course,” Zayn says as Louis sashays away in a manner very unsuited to an evil kidnapper of the crown prince. “He just likes to wind me up.”  
  
“And modest, too? The ladies must be all over you.”  
  
Zayn shakes his head. “Men, mostly, actually.” He grins. “I must just seem like the epitome of sin to a good Christian prince like yourself.”  
  
Liam wonders what has happened to the world so that it’s ended up with him sitting here exchanging banter with someone who has no qualms about killing him. For maybe the first time, he understands the deeply impersonal nature of politics, and the terribly random lottery of birth, and how they both end up making enemies of people who might otherwise be friends.  
  
“Me too, actually.” The minute the words are out of his mouth, he can feel himself going deep red. “I mean—men, mostly. For me.”  
  
Zayn looks at him for a long moment, amber eyes impossibly old and wise in his young, sharp face. “I didn’t know that.”  
  
“Most people don’t.”  
  
“That sort of thing get in the way of your prince duties, or what?”  
  
“Less then you’d think.”  
  
Zayn nods, face frozen in thought, and then briskly stands up. “Wake up His Grace so we can all take a piss together, yeah? We can pretend that it’s like a brotherly bonding activity rather than a kidnapper-captive thing that also comes off as a bit homoerotic.”  
  
“How is that—you know what, I don’t want to know.”  
  
“We’re kind of showing each other our dicks, it’s a little homoerotic.”  
  
“This conversation ends right here.”  
  
“As you wish, Your Highness.”  
  
And Liam hates the laugh that bounces off his lips when Zayn shoots him a wicked grin and hops out of the van, and hates the heart that has made him recognize that Zayn and Louis are human too, and most of all hates the world that has trapped them all in a cage of hate with guns pointed at each other’s heads.  
  
***  
  
True to his word, the minute Louis gets back in the van and starts driving, Zayn’s out like a light (“Now that I think about it, Knockout is a triply appropriate nickname because he can sleep literally anywhere,” Louis says) and the rest of them eat dry cereal and drink orange juice out of the bottle. Without Zayn to monitor him, Louis is even fuller of dirty jokes, teasing remarks, and outrageous stories, and he and Harry quickly deteriorate into bickering over what the best brand of cereal is. Liam also takes the opportunity to quiz Louis a bit about himself—angry when he realizes it’s not for the information, but rather just to get to know him—and finds that behind the sparkling blue eyes and quick, Gatsby-esque smile, there resides a deep, fierce, protective love for Zayn and the rest of his family, which consists of a small army of sisters and a young mother whom he speaks of in a voice so warm it could melt butter. Louis, in his turn, gets a bit of information out of Liam and Harry, but not quite as much as he reveals—although he seems to think that’s fair, probably because their daily and family lives are significantly more politically charged than his.  
  
Mainly, he just seems to want to know about the aristocratic lifestyle—what they eat, how much they eat, how often they see their families, whether they can go out shopping whenever they want, what the court fashion is like, whether their daily lives are disrupted by paparazzi—and he’s full of smart retorts to everything they say, in a way that simultaneously pokes fun at them and makes them feel in on the joke. Liam can’t help but think that if life was a little different, if circumstances hadn’t driven him to his current state of desperation, he would have made a very good comedian.  
  
_But the world is full of what-ifs and lost chances, and it won’t do him any good to dwell on any of them._ This is his here and now, and it’s a harsh one. No matter how well they all get along now, they aren’t friends. When they get caught—even Zayn and Louis must know that’s inevitable—it’s very unlikely they’ll all walk out of this alive. There will be, Liam realizes, has known from a very young age, no happy ending.  
  
“I understand this is somewhat of a taboo question,” he says finally. “But I have to ask.”  
  
“Shoot, Your Princeness,” Louis says. “I love breaking the rules.”  
  
“Why are the rebels—well, rebelling?”  
  
Louis frowns at him in the rearview mirror. “What, you don’t know? Isn’t that rule number one of war? Know thine enemy, and all that?”  
  
“His Majesty the king doesn’t tell me much about you,” Liam admits. “I don’t think he wants me to worry.”  
  
“I was under the impression that it’s sort of your job to worry about things that effect the country.”  
  
“This worry he wants to bear alone, apparently.”  
  
Louis sighs. “Look, I don’t know how much you leave the palace, or how much you know what’s going on in the world, but England’s economy is going down the shitter. There isn’t enough money to support the healthcare and welfare systems, so Simon cut them. There are people dying and starving and on the streets, and fuck-all the crown does to help them. The United Nations is after us for getting involved in overseas wars while neglecting our own people. Nearly every family has been affected in some way, and nearly everyone’s unhappy with the way things are. We just want to change the way things are. It’s fucking the modern-day Victorian Age out there—people starving on the streets while an elite few live in such fucking luxury they could pay the rest of our rents for life and not even notice.”  
  
“So you’re trying to create more problems by waging war on the crown? What happened to—”  
  
“Don’t you dare say peaceful protest,” Louis says flatly. “The time for that was over for me when my dad’s body was delivered to my doorstep by the Crown, and my little sister found him lying there. Simon’s a fucking tyrant.”  
  
Liam’s blood runs hot, and then cold, and for a moment he can’t see straight—everything seems warped and ugly. Harry is very quiet beside him.  
  
“You’re delusional,” he says finally, his voice steady and his fingernails cutting into his palm. “My uncle—His Majesty to you—is one of the best kings we’ve ever had. You’re fucking delusional.”  
  
Louis just fixes his eyes on the road, all traces of his comedic openness and teasing smirk gone. “I’m not the one who spent my whole life behind walls, Your Highness.”  
  
Liam swears that if he had a gun, he’d kill him. It turns out seeing the humanity in someone just isn’t enough.  
  
***  
  
He has the dream again that night, and it’s _awful_ , that feeling of being trapped, maybe even worse because he knows he’s trapped in real life, too.  
  
A life which, by the way, just keeps getting stranger.  
  
“Any reason why you were talking in your sleep?” Zayn asks when he wakes up.  
  
Liam, still full of resentment, rubs his eyes and glare at him. “Why the hell does it matter to you?”  
  
Zayn’s eyebrows shoot up. “It very much fucking matters when it’s my dad’s name you keep saying in your sleep, thanks.”  
  
There’s a long silence. Zayn’s the one driving again, and the other two are asleep.  
  
“What’s your dad’s name?” Liam whispers, his mouth dry.  
  
“Yaser,” Zayn says, his eyes fixed on Liam in the rearview mirror. “Yaser Malik.”  
  
“He’s a real person?”  
  
“What, you think the last raid of the palace was done by people who only existed in your head?”  
  
“The last raid of the palace?”  
  
Zayn frowns. “About ten years ago, yeah. A bunch of rebels went in and tried to kidnap you for leverage against Simon.”  
  
“That actually happened?” Liam feels sick to his stomach. For years, Simon was lying to him about his own safety. He knows it was probably to protect him, to make him feel safer in the aftermath of the tragedy at Wolverhampton, but—  
  
“Yeah,” Zayn says. “I’d say it did. Was a fucking fiasco. Everyone got killed early on, so only two guys actually made it up to your bedroom. One of them was my dad.” His frown deepens. “You don’t remember?”  
  
“Most of that time is a blur in my head,” Liam admits. “Everyone told me it never happened.” He pauses. “Did you know that our father refused to—”  
  
“Refused to take you in the last minute? Yeah, I know.” Zayn’s eyes settle on the road again, his face a mask. “Irving Azoff—the other man who was with him—told me. Said my dad was too good for this world. Too soft. Too kind. Not willing enough to allow for collateral damage. Maybe that’s why Azoff is the leader of the rebels now, and me dad isn’t.”  
  
“So you grew up to do exactly what your father refused to do out of mercy and morals and kindness,” Liam spits, a bitter taste in his mouth. “God, I hope he’s proud of you.”  
  
“He doesn’t know,” Zayn says acidly, “because he’s dead, Your Highness. The royal guards killed him. So yeah, I grew up to do something my dad wouldn’t, because look how he turned out. I have to be tougher and crueler and harder than my dad was because by being kind, he got himself and the entire rest of my family killed.” His knuckles are white where they’re clenched on the steering wheel. “I think you know what it’s like to watch your sisters and your mother die, Your Highness. I think you’d do anything to prevent something like that happening to you again, too.”  
  
And Liam is just silent, humbled in the face of Zayn’s anger, furious in the face of all the ugly deeds that has driven two young men to hate as strongly as they do, frustrated in the face of Simon’s massive betrayal and Zayn’s brutal honesty. The world is rocking in its axis, and all he ever wanted to do was goddamn survive.  
  
***  
  
Liam never thought England could seem this huge, this unfriendly, this endless. There aren’t any windows in the back of the van, but from what he can see out the front, the places they drive through are devastatingly poor and very often empty. He’s sure that this is a skewed view of life outside of decadent London—of course they’re avoiding rich, Crown-sympathetic areas, or large cities full of bustling people—but it makes him nervous, and it makes him doubt. Not Simon, because Simon is the last thing he has to hold on to, the last person who stayed there for him when everything else exploded, but rather doubting his own blindness, his own faith in the inherent goodness of two men who have never shown him anything but ill will.  
  
He’s naïve, he doesn’t need Louis or Zayn or anyone to tell him that. But he did think that maybe there was something good about the world. That being human was the same as having empathy.  
  
Humans can be driven to terrible things very easily. It doesn’t stop them from having lives and feelings and motives, doesn’t stop them from being _human._ Perhaps the greatest pardon the human race ever received was the first moment when someone saw a terrible deed another person did, and called it _in_ human.  
  
So maybe the deserted areas and long road trip doesn’t mean a chance to get to know two men who could have very easily been him if the tables had been turned somehow. Maybe it just means a prolonged journey to sure death.  
  
He’s not sure when he got so jaded, but he sure as hell doesn’t like the feeling. Hope, like innocence, is not easily regained once lost.  
  
***  
It’s the fourth day in the van when the problems really start.  
  
“Wake up.”  
  
Liam’s about ninety percent sure Louis’ not talking to him, but he pulls himself out of the realm of unconsciousness anyway, lured into the waking world by Louis’ urgent voice. Beside him, Harry’s already awake; they exchange wary looks that warn each other to listen closely.  
  
“Zayn, goddammit, can you not sleep like a log? It’s important. They found us, Zayn.”  
  
In the front seat, Zayn jolts awake with the same unpleasant jerk that Liam himself is so familiar with. Rebels have nightmares too, apparently.  
  
“What’s the problem?” He’s surprisingly coherent for someone who’s just been rudely awakened.  
  
“They found us.”  
  
“The royal—”  
  
“No.” Louis’ voice is grimmer than Liam’s ever heard it. “The Circle.”  
  
Liam has no idea who the Circle is, but the raw fear in Louis’ voice makes his blood run cold. _If Louis’ afraid, it probably means something good for me and Harry_ , he reasons. Somehow, it doesn’t make him feel much better.  
  
Zayn lets out a string of swear words that Liam’s fairly sure spans at least three different languages. Then he takes a deep breath, and claps Louis on the shoulder. “Keep driving. Away from them, I don’t care which direction it takes us. Just get us away.”  
  
“You got it.”  
  
Zayn turns around in his seat. “Lads—oh, you’re already awake. Good.” His eyes dart between their faces. “Listen, we’ve got a bit of a problem, yeah?”  
  
“I gathered that,” Harry says. “But a problem for you—”  
  
“—means a problem for you, too, in this case.” Zayn draws in another deep breath. Liam wonders when fear got so physical—it’s not just in his head, it’s devouring his entire body, all five senses. Salty taste in mouth, cold nervous shaking, a buzzing in his ears, blurry vision, the smell of sweat and something more metallic filling up the van as all of their fear becomes almost palpable. “Dunno if you know this, but there’s a branch of the rebellion that wwe don’t belong to. To put it simply, they’re fucking nuts. They want to kill the entire upper class and burn the country to the ground.” His hands are busy in his lap, fumbling a little but still relatively steady. “They’ll kill us and torture both of you for information in a heartbeat, okay? So I know you hate us—and god knows you have every right to—but I need you to cooperate with us just for now, yeah? Because I’d like for all of us to get out of this alive.” He catches the doubtful glance Harry levels at him and grins, quick and mercurial and edged with something dangerous. “Truly, I would. I didn’t go through all this work just for you to be shot by some crazy bastard.”  
  
“Thanks, Zayn, that means a lot,” Harry says, slow voice heavy with sarcasm and tinged with terror.  
  
“Anytime,” Zayn says. “So you gonna work as a team for now and call a bit of a truce, or am I going to have to show you the famous Knockout punch? Trust me, I’d prefer the first. Rather not be carrying around your dead weight if we have to run for it.”  
  
“We’ll call it a truce for now,” Liam says. “If you swear that these people mean us harm and it’ll benefit us to stay with you. If they actually want to free us and you’re tricking us into making us work against them—”  
  
“I swear on everything holy,” Zayn says instantly. “Trust me, you do not want to get mixed up with these blokes.”  
  
Liam takes a deep breath. It’s hard work, somehow. Takes another. Sometimes, you have to trust your gut. Sometimes, you have to trust that being human is enough, that inherent goodness is enough. “Okay. Just tell us what to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooh, a bit of a cliffhanger! 
> 
> ok, here's the deal: there are two major parts to this fic, and I want to know how you want me to publish them. Would you rather have me write two separate chaptered fics and put them in a series, or would you rather just have one massive fic divided into two parts? Either way, there'll be a bit of a hiatus between the two parts, and within the story there'd be a time skip of about a yearish. So there's not much difference except for the actual formatting. Let me know which one you'd prefer down in the comments! 
> 
> thanks for reading. big valentine's day hugs n kisses to u all. i'll catch you next week. as always, if you wanna talk to me between then and now, my tumblr is [here](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com), and if you wanna reblog the fic post, that is [here](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com/post/138359894039/viva-la-vida-by-iambluehead-pairing-zaynliam)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my lovelies! I know this is a later upload than usual, but it's still Saturday where i am so you can't hold it against me, okay? 
> 
> It's a bit of short one again, but that's only because i forgot how damned hard writing action is, and this chapter is basically all action. With that in mind, lemme give y'all a warning for some mild violence in this chapter. It's nothing bad, but I just that i'd give you a heads up in case I have some readers who are especially sensitive to that sort of thing. 
> 
> That's all! Hope you enjoy the chapter!

“All clear in the back?”  
  
Liam squints at the road, trying to make out the shimmering dust cloud behind them. “There’s something. I can’t tell if it’s just the glare off the road, or something else.” He squints even more fiercely. “I think it might be one or two cars.”  
  
“Right.” Louis’ voice is tense, a cigarette dangling from his lips and a cloud surrounding his head. Apparently, he’s a stress smoker. Zayn is calmly counting bullets into the cup holding between the two front seats and then slotting them neatly into guns or ammo pouches. His swift, efficient movements are mesmerizing.  
  
“They’re definitely cars” Harry says. “They’re going fast, too. Above the speed limit.”  
  
“It could be nothing,” Liam says hopefully.  
  
“The radar says it’s them,” Zayn interrupts. It’s kind of annoying, how calm he is. “We’re gonna have a fight on our hands one way or another, most likely. I want you two to stay in van no matter what, yeah?”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“Lou, you have your vest?”  
  
Louis’ grin is edged in cigarette ash. “You can bet on it, Knockout.”  
  
“Keep that pedal to the metal, bro.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I know.”  
  
“They’re still catching up,” Harry says, his voice strained.  
  
Neither of the men in the front seat say anything, but Liam can see that they’re so tense they’re shaking. Louis’ face is set in a hard smirk; Zayn’s still impassive as he tugs up his shirt to reveal a bullet-proof vest made of thin, flexible material. He straightens it out, drops his shirt back down, and tosses Louis two handguns and an ammo pouch.  
  
“How close?”  
  
“Still a ways.”  
  
“Sharp right when I say so,” Zayn murmurs to Louis.  
  
“You got it.”  
  
“Sharp right where?” Harry asks, his voice steadily climbing. “There’s no other roads here, we’re on the highway.”  
  
“Don’t worry about it, Your Curliness,” Louis says. “Just keep us updated on how close they are. Zayn, how close is the base?”  
  
Zayn purses his lips. “About another two hours. Hour and a half, maybe.”  
  
“If something happens to the van—”  
  
“—that’s about threeish days on foot, if we can’t call someone to help us.”  
  
“Got it.”  
  
“They’re getting closer. Two hundred meters, maybe.”  
  
“Shit.” Zayn unbuckles his seatbelt. “I’m coming back there with you lads, hold on.”  
  
Liam turns and watches as Zayn ungracefully clambers over the front seat and slides into the back space of the van with them; it’s crowded with three people, and Liam can start to smell the sweat of fear on his two companions. You wouldn’t guess that Zayn is scared from looking at him, though—he’s calmly craning his neck to peer over Harry’s shoulder, and then slipping over to the door, fingers curling around the handle. Liam can feel his body heat, the smoky smell of his gun, the ghost imprint of his hand where it’d briefly touched Liam’s shoulder.  
  
“Louis, get ready.” He turns to Liam and Harry. “You two are going to have to jump when I say so, can you do that?”  
  
“Out of a moving car?” Harry asks doubtfully.  
  
“Hopefully we won’t be going as fast by that time, but yes. Suck it up, Your Grace. Some of us want to live to see tomorrow.”  
  
A tense silence falls over the car at the reminder of the danger approaching behind them, and everyone but Louis peers out of the back window to see two cars speeding closer.  
  
“That clearing in the trees up there?” Louis asks.  
  
“You read my mind,” Zayn says. “On three, now, Tommo, nice and easy . . . one . . .”  
  
Liam realizes with a jolt that the two men plan to send them careening off the road and into the thickly wooded area surrounding the highway. “I don’t think—”  
  
“Two . . .” Zayn’s soft voice is belied by the way he shoves past Liam, yanks down a window, and leans out, gun in hand. There’s a gunshot, and the sound of something ricocheting off the road, and Louis swears, swerving a little.  
  
“Three.”  
  
Louis makes a turn so sharp, Liam staggers and hits the floor, stars spinning over his vision as they bounce over the ditch on the side of the road and plunge into the trees. Zayn sends three shots at the cars as they jolt away from the highway; the noise of a real gunshot is much louder than Liam can expected, and the kickback against Zayn’s arm looks painful.  
  
There are branches scraping up against the side of the van, and they’re being thrown around so painfully, it feels like the ground must be made up of nothing but holes and logs. Louis is cursing loudly enough to be heard even over the banging; Zayn drags Liam to his feet and shouts, “Jump out in three, yeah? One—two—”  
  
He wrenches the door open, and Liam tries to say _no, I can’t, I can’t do that, it’s too dangerous_ —  
  
“Three!”  
  
As if anticipating that Liam would hesitate, he pushes him out almost before the word even leaves his mouth. Liam hits the ground awkwardly, twisting his knee and then falling with outstretched hands into the dirt. The van rips past him, and Harry comes flying out a moment later, followed by Zayn, who lands much more gracefully than either of them.  
  
“What about Louis?” Harry asks, panting and limping a little.  
  
Zayn is already drawing out a gun and setting off at a brisk jog. “He’ll distract them a bit and then ditch the van somewhere and catch up with us. Keep up.”  
  
They follow him without thinking, panic sitting heavy in their stomachs but giving their feet wings. Liam feels distinctly defenseless and exposed with no weapons, but then again, it’s not like he’d know how to shoot a gun even if he can one. And Zayn is geared up like a small army, anyway—he’s got a handgun in each fist, and the glint of brass knuckles gleams like a wedding ring on his hands. But if it came down to it, Liam’s not sure if he trusts Zayn to protect them . . .  
  
“Keep up, goddammit,” Zayn says sharply. “You want to get shot in the back, Your Highness? No? Then hurry.”  
  
Gunshots, as if proving his point, ring out not too far away. Zayn says something under his breath that’s definitely not English but sounds like a swearword anyway. “They found Louis. Hurry.”  
  
“Is he going to be okay?”  
  
“Of course he is,” Zayn snaps. “He’s got guns, he’s got his vest. He’ll catch up with us soon.”  
  
Liam thinks that the irrefutable belief in themselves is perhaps the most dangerous thing about the rebels; they are immovable in their notion that they are right and just, and as if that were not enough, immortal. Any normal person would seem at least a little afraid for their friend. Zayn just has the unquestioning faith that Louis will come back. It’s a world view that seems courageous as it is blind, but maybe that’s what you need in a life like Louis and Zayn’s, because what would they believe in if not themselves and each other?  
  
They jog after Zayn without complaint, icy fear somehow feeling fiery on their every nerve. The gunshots that periodically ring out behind them make both Liam and Harry jump, but Zayn just keeps plowing forward—to where, he doesn’t reveal.  
  
_Maybe this is an elaborate plot to kill us off. He’ll stand us up against a tree somewhere here, and_ —  
  
Bang, bang, in a proverbial and literal sense.  
  
Louis comes sprinting out of the trees with wild eyes and blood on his face; Harry makes a tiny, muted sound of something like terror and Zayn whirls around, both guns cocked in his hands.  
  
“That yours?” is the first thing he asks.  
  
Louis frowns, touches his face. “Yeah, it’s not bad, though. I’m fine. Some bitch almost got me in the arm, but I got her first.”  
  
“How far are they behind you?”  
  
“Close enough that we should be running right now.”  
  
Zayn swears under his breath. “You go with them.”  
  
“No. We should stick together, trust me.”  
  
“Louis—”  
  
“We don’t have time for this!” Louis hisses. “You think they’re arguing over how to split up back there? No! They’re coming to kill us! Get moving!”  
  
Zayn looks like he has plenty to say to that, but instead follows Louis’ lead and takes off through the trees, going at a much faster pace than he had before. Liam assumes they should follow, so he and Harry go after him, Louis at their heels. They can hear shouting and the sound of branches breaking behind them, a sinister echo of every nightmare about being chased Liam’s ever had.  
  
“They’re too close,” he can hear Louis say softly behind him, and a massive sob of fear rises in Liam’s chest, threatening to rip out of his throat or choke him—he’s never felt this kind of fear and panic before, not even in the explosion that nearly killed him, not ever—he’s never tasted death snapping at his heels like this before—  
  
Someone comes flying out of the underbrush and tackles him, fists flying as they both go down. Liam doesn’t have time to think, can only wrestle with the larger man as best he can when he’s out of breath like this, strengthened by adrenaline and fear. They exchange a few staggering blows—Liam can taste blood in his mouth, hopes that he hasn’t lost a tooth—and then there’s a flash of metal above him and he realizes the man has pulled a gun or a knife—and—and—and—  
  
His attacker is wrenched off of him with brutal strength and someone yanks Liam to his feet roughly and shouts in his ear, shaking him a little, but all Liam can hear is a terrible buzzing, a soundless ringing that someone he knows is the sound of pure unadulterated terror.  
  
“—okay, goddammit, you useless sonofabitch, answer me!” Louis’ voice suddenly filters back in like a staticky radio, and Liam becomes aware of Zayn and Harry standing a few feet away. Everyone’s looking at him.  
  
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “I’m okay.”  
  
Zayn’s chest is heaving and even though his eyes are fixed on Liam, his hands are busy reloading his gun. There’s a cut running blood into one honey-brown eye, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Harry runs over to him, hands skimming over his skin, sliding up and down his arms like he’s making sure he is indeed okay. Louis just looks angry, and tired.  
  
Then Liam notices the body on the ground.  
  
It turns out that combat is not clean and bloodless and instant like it is in movies. There’s blood and brains on the ground and the smell of sweat and piss in the air like a heavy curtain; the man had soiled himself, and there’s an expression of agony and surprise on his face. The splatter of gore on the dirt around his head can only mean one thing, but Liam still has to ask.  
  
“Is he—”  
  
“Dead,” Zayn says brusquely. “We need to keep moving.”  
  
“Who killed him?”  
  
“Does it fucking matter? He’s dead. Let’s go.” Louis stomps past him and into the trees. Liam comes to the staggering realization that he owes Louis his life.  
  
Funny, how life stabs you in the back by putting you in the debt of someone you should hate.  
  
“I was so worried,” Harry says under his breath as they run into the trees together, Zayn bringing up the rear this time. “You were just standing there—not saying anything—for a moment I thought—”  
  
“Yeah, you’re not getting rid of me that easily.” Liam touches his face with shaking fingers; he’s going to be sporting a real shiner in the morning by the feel of it.  
  
“I suggest you save your breath for running,” Zayn says before Harry can reply.  
  
“What the hell’s your problem?” Harry snarls.  
  
“I’ve got a lot of them,” Zayn tosses back; Harry mumbles _I’ll say you do_ , “but the main one right now is the pack of lunatics who want to kill us all, especially you and His Highness. So get running.”  
  
There’s a few seconds of panting silence before a spray of bullets kicks up dirt at their heels. Zayn whips around and fires blind into the trees behind them, feet spread wide and face stone cold like some kind of avenging angel. Whether he hits something or not, Liam doesn’t know, but it somehow makes him feel a little better that their captors are willing to protect them after all—  
  
Someone grabs him again, but this time Liam puts up a better fight, driving his elbow into the assailant’s stomach and twisting away before stumbling back a few steps, arms outstretched like that will somehow stop him from being attacked again. The man who grabbed him is bigger this time, more determined—Liam barely gets a glimpse of the clearing around him to see that the others are being attacked as well before he’s tackled again. They struggle and thump around in the dirt, and Liam tastes blood again, this time mingled with mud and the leather of the man’s jacket.  
  
A blade stabs down by his head and he twists away wildly—a sharp pain explodes on the side of his temple a moment later and logically, he knows he cries out, but all he can hear is the thumping of his own blood in his ears, louder than ever in the face of imminent death. He’s pinned, helpless, out of energy to struggle. The man drops the knife and draw a gun, face intent as he levels it at Liam’s head, and—  
  
Liam can see Zayn notice his predicament over the man’s shoulder, can see the way he stops in his tracks and then sprints over. He moves so fast he looks like someone in a movie edited him to skip from one place to another with no time to travel in between; one minute he’s engaged in a struggle with another ambusher, and the next, he’s grappling Liam’s attacker from behind, a powerful headlock that lasts only a minute before the most powerful punch Liam’s ever seen connects with the man’s jaw. He’s out cold before Liam even has time to breathe.  
  
He looks away when Zayn points a gun at the man’s head.  
  
When he looks back up, the struggle is mainly done, and everyone in their small group is still alive, albeit bleeding, covered in mud, and exhausted looking. Harry is crying silently, which no one else really seems to care about.  
  
“All right?” Zayn asks Liam, pulling him to his feet and giving him a clap on the shoulder.  
  
“I’ll live,” Liam says shakily.  
  
“You’re bleeding a bit, but it’s not serious,” he says, hand coming up to swipe at Liam’s temple experimentally. “Yeah, that’s shallow. You’re lucky.” He turns to Louis. “Was that all of them?”  
  
“Yeah, we’re good for now. Unless they send a follow up party to track us—and they won’t do that for a couple of days at least, if they do it at all, considering that we’re so close to base.”  
  
“Why did they keep coming for _me_?” Liam blurts out, the words jolted out of him by the sight of the bodies on the forest floor.  
  
Louis gives him an incredulous look. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten you’re the crown prince already. You haven’t been out of the palace for _that_ long, Little Lord Fauntleroy.”  
  
“Yeah, but you lot are armed, I’d’ve thought—  
  
“Yeah, and it’s easily to kill an unarmed man than one with a gun, idiot.” Louis shakes his head. “You’ve got a hell of a lot to learn about the world.”  
  
“Louis.” Zayn’s voice has a warning tone to it.  
  
“Oh, whatever.” Louis rounds on Harry next. “You still alive, pretty boy?”  
  
Harry swallows his tears valiantly and levels his most unpleasant glare at the other man. “Don’t call me that, imbecile.”  
  
“Oh, _imbecile_ , is it? Is that the best word they taught you up at that palace of yours? That’s really the best you’ve got?”  
  
“Louis!” Zayn snaps, but Louis doesn’t seem to care.  
  
“Well, I could call you a freakishly undersized rat cunt in need of a haircut and a bar of soap, but I thought that’d be a bit much, considering as you just helped save all of our lives five seconds ago,” Harry says with all the dignity appropriate for the Duke of Cheshire.  
  
Louis stares at him for a long moment—blue meeting green in the most intense glaring contest Liam’s ever witnessed—and then, miraculously, Louis starts to laugh.  
  
“Undersized rat cunt? That’s not half bad,” he gasps out. They all watch him roar with laughter for a moment in puzzled, half-concerned silence, and then, slowly, they all start to join in.  
  
It’s wild and inappropriate and totally unsuited for the situation, but somehow it’s more cathartic than anything else could have been—the tension of the past hour or so slides off their shaking shoulders, and for a moment the floor of the forest is no longer a battlefield but simply a place to roll around in hysterics.  
  
When they all sober, reality sets in again, and Liam scrambles to his feet, not wanting to be on the same plane as the three or four corpses that surround them for much longer. Harry follows suit quickly, but it takes Zayn and Louis a moment longer to stand up—whether that’s because they just more desensitized to dead bodies, or whether it’s because they’ve been hurt more badly in the struggle, Liam doesn’t know.  
  
“We’re going to have to walk to base,” Zayn says, face falling into a grimmer expression. “It’s gonna take a couple days, if worse comes to worst, but we’re going to try and call in to see if someone can come and pick us up.”  
  
Walking for three days straight seems nearly impossible right now, but so did the prospect of being kidnapped a week ago, so hell if Liam’s going to be the one to say he can’t do that.  
  
“I expected more whining,” Louis says after a moment of silence. “I must say I’m pleasantly surprised, royal boys.”  
  
“Not royal,” Harry says automatically.  
  
“Yeah, whatever. More royal than me, so it counts.”  
  
“We have three days of walking ahead of us, please don’t tell me you’re going to spend that whole time bickering,” Zayn says.  
  
“It’s not bickering, it’s the start of a new, beautiful friendship,” Louis says with a grin.  
  
“Over my dead body,” Harry says.  
  
“It might very well have been,” Louis points out, nodding at the bodies a few feet away.  
  
Zayn snorts, but the comment effectively kills the mood for Harry and Liam.  
  
They soon decide that the first order of business will be to go back to the van and get what food and water they can; it won’t be much, but it might be enough to get them through a few days with careful, stingy rationing. Liam wonders why they won’t still be able to drive, but Louis assures him that the condition he left it in is not suitable for driving. Sure enough, when they arrive back at the spot where Louis left it, the van is wrapped around the trunk of a stately pine tree, two tires short of a full set due to bullet holes, and in possession of a shot-out windshield.  
  
“Dunno about you, but I’d rather walk than try to drive that mess,” Louis quips, yanking open the only working door and poking his head in. “Yeah, the food’s still in here; it looks okay.”  
  
A half-empty box of cereal comes flying out, quickly followed by a bunch of bananas, a package of crackers, and a case of water bottles.  
  
“Anything else?” Zayn asks when nothing more is thrown.  
  
“Nah, there’s still a little, I was just lighting a cig. One sec—”  
  
Two bars of chocolate, one more water bottle, a heel of bread, and a pack of cigarettes. Combined with the other items, it’s all the food they have to get through what will most likely be three days of intensive walking.  
  
“Well, it’s better than nothing,” Zayn says, looking sadly down at the small pile. “But this is _not_ going to be fun.”  
  
“Since when has anything ever been fun, Zayn?” Louis asks, stepping out of the van with all the dignity of a king and slamming the door shut behind him; the van lets out a kind of anguished groan. “God, I hope that doesn’t explode and start a forest fire.”  
  
“It probably won’t. Was my laptop in there?”  
  
“Yeah, it was, but it was also smashed to smithereens.”  
  
“Fantastic.” Zayn pulls out his phone and starts pulling up a map.  
  
“You’re getting a signal out here?” Harry asks.  
  
“Nah, I’m just using up what’s probably my whole data plan for the month.”  
  
“You have a data plan?”  
  
“I’m human, aren’t I?”  
  
“I just—that seems so normal.”  
  
“Believe it or not, Your Grace, I’m actually more normal than you by most standards.” Zayn looks up from his phone. “I know what direction we have to go in. What are we going to carry all of this in?”  
  
While Louis and Zayn work out the logistics, Harry and Liam step aside to talk.  
  
“You realize this is gonna be our best chance to get away, right?” Harry says, his green eyes alight like they haven’t been in a few days.  
  
“Yeah . . .”  
  
“You sound awfully doubtful.”  
  
“I mean, we’re out in the middle of nowhere, with people who definitely want to kill us on our tail, and no weapons, no food, no phones. Even if we managed to give them the slip—which I kind of doubt we’d be able to do, after seeing them today—we wouldn’t last two minutes, Harry. Alive and captured is better than free and dead.”  
  
Harry’s shoulders droop, and Liam hates the look of disappointment and realization on his face. “Yeah, but . . .”  
  
“I wanna get away as much as you do, Harry. It’s just that I want to do it when we know we’ll make it, because if we fail the first time, we’ll never get a second chance.”  
  
Harry nods glumly, the light in his eyes snuffed out. But Liam tells himself he’s doing the right thing by discouraging him. After all, it wouldn’t do to make an escape and get shot by another rebel a day later. At least with Louis and Zayn, they’re safe—the other two men will protect them, and haven’t shown signs of wanting to kill them so far.  
  
Also—and he doesn’t want to admit this, even to himself—for a while there, it’d felt like they were all on the same team, and that feels significant somehow.  
  
And that’s perhaps the most disturbing thing of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's it! hope you liked it this time around. 
> 
> last week you all seemed to vote for one massive fic with two major parts to it, so that's the option i'll be going with, i guess! today's question is: would you like to start seeing some chapters/scenes written in zayn's perspective? I have scenes planned out for the second part of this fic, and hadn't intended on writing any in his POV for this part, but I was wondering if you guys wanted to see that at all. Leave me a comment if that's something you're interested in seeing in this fic!
> 
> tumblr [here](https://iambluehead.tumblr.com) and post [here](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com/post/138359894039/viva-la-vida-by-iambluehead-pairing-zaynliam) as always


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, chapter 5! In which Zayn and Louis bicker constantly, some new characters are finally introduced, everyone is tired as hell, and I am disappointed in myself because I thought this chapter was gonna be longer than it is. 
> 
> I'll ramble more at the end; for now, enjoy.

“Not to be dramatic,” Louis says, which Liam knows by now always precedes Louis’ more dramatic statements, “but I feel like shit.”  
  
“Yeah, you and the rest of us,” Zayn mumbles without fire; Louis disregards this and blithely continues.  
  
“I feel worse than I did the time that we got sold out by that weasel Calvin and ended up in jail for five nights with two bullets apiece in us. I feel worse than I did the time I fell through two stories worth of plywood planks in Scotland. I feel worse—”  
  
“For the love of God,” Zayn says loudly, “would you please shut the fuck up.”  
  
There’s a short silence, and then Louis sniffs haughtily. “Let me complain, Zayn. It’s the last shred of human dignity that remains. When you’re tired, hungry, wet, and angry, the only thing that is left is to complain. I intend to exercise that right with vigor.”  
  
“And I intend to exercise my right to punch you in the face with vigor.”  
  
“Oh, for God’s sake, Zayn—”  
  
“Speaking of God,” Zayn says abruptly, waving off Louis’ words like a cloud of irritating flies, “I just realized this whole mission made me break my New Year’s resolution.”  
  
Louis frowns. “And you were doing quite well up until this point, weren’t you?”  
  
“Almost one hundred percent success rate, yeah.”  
  
“What was the resolution?” Liam asks in spite of himself, because at the least it’ll keep those two from bickering and keep his mind off his aching feet, empty stomach, and rain-sodden clothing.  
  
Zayn flicks him an unreadable glance. “I was trying to pray every day. S’one of the Five Pillars of Islam. I haven’t been very good about doing it these past couple of years, so . . .” He trails off and shrugs.  
  
“I didn’t know you were Muslim.”  
  
“I would hazard a guess that there are a lot of things you don’t know about me, Your Highness, at the risk of sounding like a cliché.”  
  
“It’s not a cliché if it’s true,” Louis says, wringing out his fringe with a grin.  
  
Zayn stares at him flatly. “Yeah, it is.”  
  
“Oh, good God. You’re no fun.” Louis turns to Liam and Harry with his arms outstretched suppliantly. “Do you see how boring he is? He always has to be right.”  
  
“ _I_ always have to be right? What about that time when—”  
  
“I don’t know what you’re about to say, but I’m sure it was only one time,” Louis says smoothly.  
  
“It definitely wasn’t. You have an oldest-child complex.”  
  
“That’s probably true,” Louis concedes. “Have you heard anything from base yet?”  
  
“Nothing. I’m sure they’ll get back to us soon.”  
  
“What happens when we get to base?” Liam asks softly. “Are they gonna—”  
  
“No,” Zayn says. “You’re going t’be fine, Your Highness. I promise.”  
  
Despite the mud and rain and general unhappiness, there’s a note of warmth in Zayn’s voice. He sounds like he actually cares whether Liam and Harry live or die. This isn’t reassuring enough to release the knot of anxiety in Liam’s stomach, but it is enough to loosen it a little.  
  
“If they’re not going to kill us, then what will they do?” Harry asks practically.  
  
Louis and Zayn exchange glances. “Not sure,” Louis says after a moment. “You’re hostages, so you’ll probably just sit around waiting for a deal to be hammered out so you can go back. But you’ll be kept safe and comfortable; we’re not in the business of abusing prisoners, especially ones as valuable as you two.”  
  
“Could’ve fooled me,” Harry says, raising an eyebrow, but there’s no real malice behind the words. Once someone has saved your life once or twice, once you’ve been walking alongside them in pouring rain for twelve hours, once you know they’ve loved and lost people the same as you have, it’s a little hard to resent them for being on the enemy’s side. It’s not understanding, and it’s not peace, and it’s not forgiveness, but it’s something. A tiny sliver of realization wedged into the ingrained hatred they all carry on their backs.  
  
“There are going to be people there who hate you,” Zayn says eventually. “People who want you dead, people who blame you for things are aren’t entirely your fault, people who will unkind and work against you. You shouldn’t let that worry you. Unless someone very powerful talks Azoff into killing you—which probably isn’t going to happen—you should be okay as long as you keep your head low and try not to—”  
  
“You want us to cooperate with you,” Liam blurts.  
  
“Yeah,” Zayn says as though this is obvious. “You’re hostages, Your Highness. You want to stay alive, don’t you?”  
  
“Yes, but as the Crown Prince I can’t just—”  
  
“Martyrs have a one hundred percent failure rate in that field, Your Highness. I suggest you remember that before you try and become one.”  
  
***  
  
Zayn sings when he’s rationing out the food.  
  
Not loud, just a few murmured lyrics mixed in with some humming, but it’s obvious he’d have a great voice if he really let loose. It feels private and secret, like Liam’s listening to something he shouldn’t—Zayn obviously isn’t aware he’s doing it, which makes it seems like Liam should ignore it. But it’s pretty, and it’s one of Liam’s favorite current songs, and somehow it makes Zayn seem young and vulnerable and normal in a way he isn’t usually, with his guarded looks and iron-hard fists and stubborn adherence to titles and propriety.  
  
Liam imagines the royal soldiers bursting out of the underbrush and ripping through their tiny makeshift camp with their machine guns. He wonders what would be left after the rescue, wonders if Zayn’s song would still fill the green space under the trees or if it’d be cut short by the choking tide of blood. Wonders when he started caring what happened in the aftermath of him getting home.  
  
He knows the next few lyrics Zayn sings to himself— _darling, all I know are sad songs, sad songs, sad songs_.  
  
***  
  
It’s hour twenty eight of on and off walking when Zayn’s phone rings. He scrabbles to answer it, everyone staring at him as he accepts the call and holds the device up to his ear.  
  
“Yeah, hey,” he says after a moment. “We’ve got the Prince and the Duke. We ran into some problems, though—did you get my voicemail? Okay, so you know what’s up. We need someone to come and pick us up; the satellite locator is turned on—what?”  
  
He falls silent and everyone leans in to try and get a snatch of the other end to no avail.  
  
“Yeah, yeah, I get that, but—okay, that’s—goddammit, Pez, listen to me!” There’s a short pause; Zayn’s eyebrows are furrowed. “We’ve got the most valuable hostages the rebellion has ever had with us right now, there’s only two of us to guard them, everyone is starving and exhausted, and we got attacked by Circle members not even thirty hours ago; they’re probably already on our tail again. We need a ride back to base, and we need it _right now_. What’s that? Then goddamn make them, Perrie, I don’t have the time for this shit. We’re the most important thing on the field right now.” He draws in a deep breath and scrubs a hand over his eyes. “Okay . . . okay. All right. Call me back when you know.”  
  
“What’s going on?” Louis, Liam, and Harry asks in unison when he hangs up.  
  
“According to Perrie, ninety percent of our vehicles were sent out on a mission yesterday, so they don’t have the resources to come pick us up. Somehow, they failed to remember that their most important mission had yet to return to home. So—”  
  
“No backup,” Louis finishes. “To be fair, they thought we had the van.”  
  
“The van was for going undercover, not for withstanding any sort of major combat incident,” Zayn says bitterly. “There’s no way they thought that would have lasted for more than a few days. They should have kept at least one secure vehicle for us.”  
  
“Azoff has a major personal interest in this particular mission, I’m sure he’ll—”  
  
“—screw us over and leave us behind like he did to my dad? Yeah, me too.” Zayn angrily thumbs his phone open again and stomps away, already dialing with shaking hands.  
  
“Well,” Louis says, watching him go with hands on his hips, “I can only hope he doesn’t piss off anyone too important while he’s making angry phone calls.”  
  
“What happens if no one comes to pick us up?” Harry asks.  
  
“We keep walking. It won’t be pretty, especially once our rations give out.” Louis pulls a face. “But Azoff won’t leave us hanging. Zayn’s oversimplifying it anyway.”  
  
“How is this any better than what my uncle’s done?” Liam wonders. “This Azoff bloke is leaving you to fend for yourselves just like you claim His Majesty did.”  
  
“Leaving two full grown, well trained men to guard two untrained, tired aristocrats is hardly comparable to having an entire family murdered because their dead father was involved in the rebellion,” Louis says. He doesn’t sound angry, which is a first when it comes to Liam challenging him on the rebellion’s political beliefs. “When we’re back at base, I’ll arrange for you to see what Simon’s done firsthand. I think you need to see it before you believe it.”  
  
***  
  
Two hours later, they’re settling down for a quick rest with no further word on a potential pick-up. Zayn is silent and somewhat sullen, but to be fair, so are the rest of them. No one’s happy about the prospect of walking for another twenty-some hours.  
  
“When we’re out of this mess,” Harry asks Liam quietly, “what’s the first thing you’re going to do?”  
  
“Probably deal with a shit load of paperwork and interviews,” Liam says. “We’re not just going to get to come back and relax, you know.”  
  
“If you could do anything, what would it be,” Harry repeats stubbornly. “Forget you’ve got responsibilities for a moment here.”  
  
“I’d sleep in my own bed for about forty eight hours,” Liam says, deciding to humor him. “Yeah, I’d have a nice long sleep. Then I’d put on some music and watch something funny where the good guys always win and the bad guys always lose, and nothing is ever complicated and no one ever gets hurt.”  
  
“That sounds nice,” Harry says, his voice wistful. “I miss fresh fruit. And yoga. And my mum. I’d give her and Gemma a big hug and let my mum cry and let Gemma hit me for worrying them like that. And then we’d order some hot cocoa up and we could sit down and finish that last season of The Office we’ve always been meaning to watch.”  
  
“That sounds nice.” Liam wonders if he and Simon would do something like that. He can’t picture it. “Reckon we’ll ever get to do any of that?”  
  
“Of course we will,” Harry says, calm as a king assured in his power. “And I thought it was supposed to be you comforting me, and not the other way around.”  
  
“It’s nice to have a change for once.”  
  
They run out of words after that—there’s something deeply silencing about exhaustion—and listen to the soft murmurs between the rebels at the other of the clear they’ve settled down in; they seem to be debating who will take first watch.  
  
The two young men opposite them are haggard, Liam realizes with a jolt. He’s so used to seeing them like this—tired and tense and on guard—that he never stopped to wonder if they’ve ever looked any differently. Now, looking at them in the soft twilight half-light, he realizes that two weeks ago, they probably looked like any other person their age, if maybe better armed. Mentally, he erases the circles under their eyes, the week’s worth of stubble on their jaws, the sharp hollows under their cheekbones. Yes, the past few days have been just as rough on their captors as they’ve been on Harry and Liam, if not more so. After all, it’s been them doing the fighting, them staying up to keep watch, them driving and forcing everyone to walk and keeping everyone moving. Liam doesn’t pity them or anything, because honestly, they’ve brought it down on themselves, but he does respect them a bit more. Not everyone is willing to sacrifice themselves like this for a cause.  
  
They work out whatever issue it was with the watch, and Louis settles down to nap while Zayn sits up straighter with a hand on his gun. A sentry that will kill an intruder just as quickly as he’ll put a bullet in Liam’s brain if he makes a run for it.  
  
The amber light fades to purple, and Liam’s eyes drift closed. Zayn’s figure doesn’t move, but the faint reflection of light off his eyes tells Liam he’s still awake The last thing Liam thinks before the powerful currents of sleep pull him under is that Zayn is humming absently to himself again, quiet and private and reminiscent of a boy who maybe once didn’t always have a hand on his gun.  
  
***  
  
“Get up!”  
  
Liam drags his eyes open reluctantly; he swears he’s only just fallen asleep. _This should be illegal_ , he thinks as he pulls himself upright, and then realizes that a good deal of his current situation is.  
  
“Whuzit?” Harry slurs, dragging a tired hand over his eyes.  
  
“Zayn got someone to come pick us up,” Louis says triumphantly. “We’ve got to get moving towards the highway, so get on your feet, pretty boy.”  
  
It’s a testament to how tired Harry is that he doesn’t protest the moniker, but instead just hoists himself to his feet and presses a hand to his gargling stomach. “Food?”  
  
“Once we start walking.”  
  
Both Liam and Harry groan, but it’s enough to propel them both forward to where Zayn is holding the half-empty packet of crackers and a few squares of chocolate.  
  
“You blokes have done better at this whole thing than I’d thought,” Louis admits as they set a pace and start walking. “I thought we’d have to be carrying you by the end of this.”  
  
“Us nobles are tougher than you’d think,” Harry says, determinedly plodding along beside the older man. “Got lots of stamina.”  
  
“Do you, now?” Louis winks and practically skips away to catch up with Zayn.  
  
Harry watches him go with an expression that hovers between annoyance and amusement. “Y’know, if things were different . . .”  
  
When he trails off, Liam prompts, “Yeah?”  
  
“Never mind.”  
  
As they approach the highway, Liam begins to feel a growing apprehension. Louis and Zayn have been decent to them, but how will the other rebels treat them? He can’t imagine there’ll be any love lost for nobles among such a crowd, much less for the nephew and heir of their greatest enemy. And he doubts that they’ll be in Zayn and Louis’ hands for long once they reach the base; two young men like them can’t have much authority.  
  
So. He could be dead in a few hours’ time, despite all of the promises he’s been given that he’ll be fine.  
  
Which is, you know.  
  
Fine.  
  
Facing down your own mortality is not the best way to wake up, to be honest.  
  
Zayn makes them wait in the trees at the side of the highway so they’re not seen, even though the road is deserted and there’s no one there to see them. Louis accuses him of being clichéd as well as paranoid, to which Zayn replies, “Better paranoid than dead.” Louis next claims he’s being dramatic, and another petty squabble ensues between the two, strengthening Liam’s already firm belief that despite the fact that they’re not related in blood, they’re definitely brothers in spirit.  
  
Not even half an hour later, another van (not a bread van this time) pulls up on the roadside next to them, and Louis shoves them out onto the pavement. Liam and Harry stumble towards the vehicle with feet numb with fear before rudely pushed into the back after the door is hastily flung open by someone already inside.  
  
Inside, there are seats but no seatbelts; Liam sinks into one gratefully, suddenly hyperaware that he hasn’t showered or brushed his teeth in days in the enclosed space. There’s a person in the driver’s seat who takes off the second everyone is seated, and one other rebel who’s in the back with them.  
  
“Took you long enough,” Zayn says, sprawling out over two seats, a feat Liam hadn’t imagined was possible for someone with such a slight build.  
  
“You blokes all stink,” says the other rebel, wrinkling her nose. She’s young and pretty, with long blonde hair and a round face; again, nothing how Liam pictured a rebel would look. “When was the last time you—”  
  
“That’s on your head for not picking us up sooner.”  
  
“Are you gonna let that go, or what? I told you it wasn’t my fault.”  
  
“Give him a couple hours to recover and he’ll forgive you, Perrie,” Louis says easily. “You try roughing it for a few days and see what kind of mood it puts you in.”  
  
Perrie shrugs and turns a fierce blue stare on Liam and Harry. “So this is them?”  
  
“Yeah,” Zayn says.  
  
“You look pretty decent for someone who’s related to a cold-blooded killer,” she tells Liam with an almost curious note to her voice.  
  
“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” the driver calls back.  
  
“Ah, let them be. They’re not bad, as far as nobles go,” Louis says. “What have people been saying back at base?”  
  
“About them? No one’s too excited to have them; it puts us in greater danger of being found and attacked. But everyone’s under strict orders to leave them alone, so it’s not like there’s a mob waiting to tear them to pieces. They’ll be confined, anyway, right?”  
  
“Probably,” Zayn says. He looks like he’s about to fall asleep. “How long is it gonna take us to get there? M’knackered like I haven’t been since Scotland.”  
  
“Another half hour,” the driver says. “Take a power nap, Knockout. God knows you need one, and there’s another mission that’s taking off in a few hours that might need you, so you might as well sleep while you can.”  
  
“Are you fucking kidding me,” Zayn mumbles, and promptly falls asleep without further ado.  
  
“Knockout, indeed,” Perrie says fondly. “Man can sleep like no one I’ve ever met.”  
  
Louis and Perrie make small talk for the rest of the journey—most of it goes over Liam’s head, as it’s filled with the names of people he’s never met and places he’s never been to—and before he knows it, they’re pulling up to a tiny shed a few miles off the highway.  
  
“ _This_ is your base?” Harry asks incredulously. It doesn’t even look big enough to fit ten people.  
  
“Oh, just you wait, pretty boy,” Louis says, flinging open the van door. “God, I cannot wait to shower.” He prods Zayn in the ribs. “Rise and shine, brother of mine. We’re back home.”  
  
Zayn grouchily rubs his eyes and stretches before jumping out of the van. “If you’ll follow me, Your Highness and Your Grace,” he says, heading off towards the shed.  
  
They bumble after him fearfully, followed by Perrie and Louis. Liam’s breath is coming quick and ragged, but he keeps his face as straight as he can, his chin up and mouth set.  
  
_Be a prince, be a prince, be a prince . . ._  
  
Inside the shed, there’s a trapdoor and beneath it, a flight of stairs plunging steeply into the ground, a descent into darkness that makes Liam shiver.  
  
“Who’s there?” The voice that calls up from the blackness is hostile, with a distinct Irish brogue that sounds vaguely familiar.  
  
“It’s Perrie; I’m back with Zayn and Louis and the prisoners.”  
  
“Password?” the man asks.  
  
“There’s no fucking password, you son of a bitch, when are you going to stop with that?” Perrie snaps. “We’re coming down, get ready.”  
  
She leads the way down, followed by Louis, then Liam, Harry and Zayn. The darkness is absolute for a few yards after the stairs, and then, after they turn a sharp corner, they’re ushered into a dimly lit concrete-walled room occupied by a blond-haired man whose face Liam recognizes with a jolt.  
  
For a moment, he’s utterly speechless.  
  
“You’re with them?” he asks. His legs feel like they’re about to give out.  
  
“Afriad so,” Duke Horan says with a rueful smile.  
  
_Tell the Duke I say thanks for making this so easy._ So it had been Niall Zayn had been talking about that first night when he’d paid off the guard. Liam’s shaking with rage and betrayal—it makes sense that the rebels have powerful allies in the palace, because they’d never get in without them, but the fact that it’s someone he considered his friend is a pill too bitter to swallow.  
  
“It’s not personal, Your Highness,” Niall says with a shrug. “Just doing what’s best for the country, yeah?”  
  
“It _is_ goddamn personal,” Liam says loudly. “It’s goddamn personal when I fucking trusted you, and you paid me back like _this._ Don’t give me that bullshit, Your Grace.”  
  
Niall regards him for a moment with a cocked head and curious blue eyes, and then says, “Zayn, you’re being sent out again. They’re leaving from exit C in an hour; you’d better hurry.”  
  
Zayn swears softly. “I just got back, for god’s sake.”  
  
“No rest for the weary, mate.”  
  
“Where are we going?”  
  
“Brisbane. It’s not going to be pretty, so pick up some ammo before you go.”  
  
Zayn swears again and turns to Louis, clapping him on the shoulder. “You can take this from here, yeah? Tell the girls and your mum I say hi.”  
  
“Sure thing.”  
  
“Oh, and thanks for picking us up, Perrie.”  
  
“No problem, love. Stay safe.”  
  
“Will do.” He walks towards one of the doors that lead out of the closed concrete chamber and then pauses. “If I’m not back again this time tomorrow—well, you know what they say.”  
  
“You’ll be back,” Louis says softly. “You always are.”  
  
The door slams shut behind Zayn, and Harry turns to Louis with a furrowed brow. “What does that mean?”  
  
“It’s a line from Bohemian Rhapsody, Sherlock,” Louis says. “ _If I’m not back again this time tomorrow, carry on, carry on._ He’s telling us to keep fighting if he dies on the mission.” He shrugs. "Partially serious, because a lot of people get demoralized and give up after their friends and family die on the field, but mainly just his attempt at gallows humor.”  
  
Liam feels something cold slide down his spine, and has no idea why. The life of one rebel does not matter to him. He does not care if Zayn dies. In fact, he should be hoping he does, because that means whatever mission he’s been sent on fails, which can be only good for the crown.  
  
“Let’s get you two to your chambers,” Niall says.  
  
“You mean cells,” Liam says flatly.  
  
“Chambers sounds nicer, though,” Niall says, seemingly irrepressible. “Follow me, will you? Tommo, you bring up the rear.”  
  
And for what feels like the millionth time in the past few days, Liam swallows his fear, keeps his head up, and lets a group of people who have every reason to want to kill him lead him into a darkness which seemingly has no end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally Niall is here! i was missing him lmao. 
> 
> Okay, so about the whole Zayn POV thing! Most of you expressed a desire to see this fic through Zayn's eyes, but I think I'm gonna wait until I make a decision about it just because as of yet y'all don't know much about him, and i'd rather reveal him gradually through Liam's eyes than have it all just dumped on you through Zayn's POV. I think what I'm going to end up doing is publishing little separate oneshots on my tumblr that have different scenes from the whole fic in Zayn's POV so if there are scenes you guys want to see in both POVs you can request them?? Idk, just an idea, nothing is final yet. Tell me what you think, okay?
> 
> ((([tumblr](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com)and [fic post](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com/post/138359894039/viva-la-vida-by-iambluehead-pairing-zaynliam))))


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go, lovelies! chapter 6 served up hot and ready for your enjoyment. I'm quite please with how this one turned out, for once. I hope you enjoy it as much as i do!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented on last week's chapter; i got some lovely comments that made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside :D you all are the best readers a writer could hope for and i'm so happy you seem to be enjoying this fic so far!!
> 
> okay, enough sappiness. onwards and forwards to the chapter!!!

For the first time since leaving the palace—actually, probably for the first time ever—Liam is completely and utterly alone. There’s nothing in his austere cell to keep him company except a slender beam of sunlight that’s thrown onto the floor from a five-inch slit in the ceiling that’s a poor excuse for a window. It’s unnerving, to say the least, and sets his heart racing uncomfortably with the thought that the rebels could be doing anything to Harry, could be about to do anything to him.  
  
The little rectangle of sunlight is the only friendly thing in his comfortably yet sparsely furnished room, so he forgoes the two metal folding chairs set up at the card table in the corner and sits down on the concrete floor next to it, thinking of all the choices and events and accidents that led to him being here, totally alone for what may be the first time in his life. He’s never not had a friend or a guard or a family member at his side, never not been accompanied by someone to ensure his safe passage. In the quietness that remains after all the chattering has died away—a silence he’d once thought he’d craved—Liam is small and lonely and frightened, a burnt-out match after its entourage of flame has been doused.  
  
For a long time he just sits there, frozen in the alien silence and unable to move from where he sits, watching the light on the floor change colors and finally fade away. His stomach grumbles and he begins to wonder if they plan to feed him, or if he’ll just be locked away here forever, alone and starving. Forgotten. Liam has experienced his share of pain in his life, but the one thing that is totally foreign to him is the thought of being forgotten. He’s always been the center of the attention, the most important person in the room, a figure everyone else accommodated and deferred to.  
  
He supposes being forgotten comes right after being alone.  
  
The door is flung open, and Louis stalks in carrying a school-lunch style tray of food, chin tilted haughtily up in a manner Liam’s not used to being directed at him. Behind him are two armed rebels—middle aged, grizzled, ready to kill at a moment’s notice—but Liam’s not even thinking of trying to make a run for it at this point.  
  
Louis slaps the tray down on the card table and gestures to it. “That’s for you, innit.” He frowns. “Why are you sitting on the floor?”  
  
Liam tries to come up with a good answer for this and can think of nothing. “I thought I’d seen the last of you.”  
  
“Apparently I’m to help you adjust,” Louis says, to his credit not sounding bitter or contemptuous at all, “because we’re already somewhat acquainted.”  
  
“Fine.” Liam stands up, brushes himself off, and sits down in front of the food. “Do I get to go to the bathroom? Do I get fresh clothes?”  
  
Louis raises an eyebrow. “You really haven’t done a good job at exploring this place, have you?” He strides over to a rickety set of drawers in the opposite corner of the card table and flings open the top one; there’s a few neatly folded pairs of boxers and socks, a couple clean T-shirts underneath that. “There should be a laundry bag in here somewhere; just put your dirty things in there when you’re done.”  
  
“How do I know they’ll fit?”  
  
Louis glares. “We estimated; you’ll make do. Sorry there aren’t any royal tailors here, Your Highness.”  
  
The two rebels behind him snort in derision and Liam immediately feels a deep enmity towards them. It’s not his fault he was raised in a palace; in fact, if things had gone his way, he wouldn’t have even been the crown prince at all. They don’t need to mock him like that.  
  
“Is that it?” he asks coldly.  
  
“There’ll be someone here to take you to the bathroom in about an hour,” Louis says. “Bon appetite, Your Highness.”  
  
He leaves the room in the same brisk, unceremonial way he’d arrived, the door slamming shut and audibly locking behind him. As Liam begins eating the meal, he suddenly realizes he’d forgotten to ask about Harry. He has no idea whether his friend is alive or dead, no idea where he is or what they’ve done to him.  
  
Liam makes it through the meal okay, but once the food is gone and there’s nothing for him to be actively focusing on any longer, the silence becomes too much and he succumbs to the crushing fear that’s been haunting him ever since that first night Zayn appeared at the foot of his bed. Overwhelmed by the thoughts of the fruitless search for him that must be going on, the separation from his best friend and uncle he’s suffered, the terrible treachery Duke Horan committed in facilitating his capture, and the uncertain future that’s surely filled with more terrors, he puts his head down in his arms and cries like he hasn’t since he was a child, the empty room echoing with hoarse animal sobs that are ripped from a place deep in his chest. He has never known fear and loneliness and difficulty like he has known them in the past few days, has never shaken hands with death and felt its tepid breath on his neck so intimately as he did when their party was attacked by the Circle. Even the friendly patch of sunlight is gone; there is no one there to witness his pain.  
  
After what seems like hours but can’t have been too long, his sobs quiet and he regains control of himself. This is what he will have to live through for the foreseeable future. He will have to take this loneliness and fear and make it his, make it into armor, make it into a survival kit. If he doesn’t, he will be no prince at all.  
  
_The king should always be the best man in the room,_ Liam’s father used to say. _He should always be the strongest when there is doubt, the bravest when there is fear, the kindest when there is cruelty. If a king ceases to be the best man wherever he goes, he ceases to be a king._  
  
The words have never resonated with Liam as deeply as they do now, when he is experiencing doubt and fear and cruelty firsthand, as he never has before. If he is to stay a prince—and by extension, a king—through this, he will always have to be strong and brave and kind, no matter what happens to him. The moment he ceases to be a prince, the rebels will have won.  
  
He cannot let them win.  
  
***  
  
Louis comes and takes him to the bathroom, alone this time but with a gun visible at his belt. He comes to a standstill when he sees Liam still at the table in front of the empty dishes with wet patches on his sleeves from crying and a tear-swollen face, but mercifully he says nothing but,  
  
“Ready to go take a royal piss in a rebel urinal? I daresay this will be the first times that happens in all of English history.”  
  
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Liam says, becoming aware of an aching bladder as he speaks. “Ready to watch me?”  
  
Louis winks. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”  
  
Liam just rolls his eyes and stands up, holding out both hands. Louis gives him a confused look.  
  
“What, don’t you need to cuff me?”  
  
“Don’t you need to hold your willy while you take a piss?”  
  
“Good point,” Liam concedes. “Aren’t you afraid of me making a run for it?”  
  
Louis’ smile is scissor-like in the dim light. “Your Highness,” he says, “I really can’t imagine you’d make it farther than five feet.”  
  
They walk out into the hallway together, Liam squinting as they emerge into the brighter fluorescent lighting.  
  
“How’s Harry?” Liam asks as they begin walking. “The truth, though. Don’t lie to me if he’s hurt or—yeah.”  
  
It’s Louis’ turn to roll his eyes. “Please. He’s fine. He’s far too valuable to kill. I took him to the bathroom fifteen minutes ago.”  
  
“Can I see him?”  
  
“Eventually. Not now.”  
  
“How do I know you’re not lying, then?”  
  
“You don’t.” The thought of not being believed doesn’t seem to bother Louis much.  
  
They fall into a silence after that; as Liam uses the bathroom and they walk back, the quiet between them stretched thin and only punctuated by the muffled beat of their footsteps against the concrete floor.  
  
Just as Liam’s being ushered back into his room (cell), he turns to Louis abruptly and without knowing why, asks, “Is Zayn back?”  
  
“From the mission? No. Haven’t heard from him.” Louis’ voice is indifferent, but Liam can see the flicker of tension and worry in his eyes and wonders what it must be like to love someone when they and you are so constantly in danger. Wonders what it must be like to know that you may never see the man you consider your brother again, that you might never know how he died or where he is buried. Surely hearing something back would be better than nothing at all. He knows what it is like to be afraid of silence, now. He knows the terror it brings, the doubts it breeds in your mind. “Why do you want to know?” Louis adds suspiciously.  
  
“I—no reason,” Liam says, because he honestly can’t think of one good reason why he should care if he ever sees Zayn again. “I was just wondering. Because—because I know what it’s like to worry about your brother.”  
  
“You don’t have one,” Louis says flatly, like he thinks Liam is mocking him.  
  
“No, but I’m worrying a whole lot about Harry right now,” Liam says with a sad smile.  
  
Louis is silent a moment, and then says, “It’s not the same damn thing, Liam. It’s not the same damn thing at all.”  
  
He walks out quickly, his head down and shoulders hunched, leaving Liam to wonder what he’d meant.  
  
***  
  
It’s hard to keep track of time passing. There’s no clock, and even with the sunlight sliver Liam has a hard time distinguishing the approximate hour. It’s more disconcerting than he would have guessed; he supposes it’s one of those things you never know how much you depend on it until it’s gone. Or maybe it’s just one more thing that’s being taken away from him that’s pushing him over the edge. Either way, the hours crawl by at an unbearable pace, unnamed, unproductive, and empty-handed.  
He wouldn’t have thought it was possible to literally die of boredom before all this happened, but that’s what being a hostage feels like. He supposes that at least being bored is better than being afraid.  
  
(Let it never be said that Liam can’t find a silver lining in everything.)  
  
He sees Harry once, when they’ve been brought to the bathroom at the same time once—whether this was arranged on purpose, he doesn’t know—and true to Louis’ word, the other man is safe and sound, albeit a little weepy when he sees Liam. They exchange a few hasty words, and Liam learns that Harry is being kept a few doors down from Liam’s cell. He suspects this information will be useful when he comes up with a decent escape plan, but as of right now it doesn’t do him much good other than offering a bit of comfort in the knowledge that Harry is safe and nearby.  
  
Niall sometimes brings him his meals instead of Louis, but they quickly drop that strategy after the ninth time Liam refuses to eat the food Niall brings. He’d figured a hunger strike would be more effective in banishing the Irish duke from his presence than any sort of shouting match ever could; and besides, it’s more dignified. So eventually it’s only Louis, Perrie, the driver from the van that had picked them up (whose name is Josh, he learns), and occasionally an assortment of other people who usually never return, for what reason he couldn’t say.  
  
It must be about a week into his imprisonment when the door opens and it’s not Louis or Perrie or Josh that walks in, but Zayn.  
  
“I thought you were dead,” is the first thing that comes out of Liam’s mouth. “No one ever talks about you.”  
  
Zayn smirks and slaps the tray down on the table. “Why, Your Highness, I almost think you might care.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Liam says stiffly. “I’m just surprised to see you.”  
  
The other man shrugs. “How’s rebel life been treating you?”  
  
“Poorly. I feel like I’m going to go crazy locked up in here with nothing to do.”  
  
“Shouldn’t you be making friends with the mice? I though that’s what Disney princes are supposed to do. That and sing.”  
  
“Those are the princesses,” Liam says, irritated. “The princes save people. And there aren’t any mice in here anyway.”  
  
“Well, thank God,” Zayn says, faking relief. “Then we’d have to call an exterminator, and that’s just a pain in the arse.” He pauses, sobering. “Seriously, though, it’s better for you to be bored than dead. There are plenty of people here who’d love to have their hand at doing you in if they had half the chance, so we have to keep you as out of sight as possible. Once Azoff comes back to base, you should have more freedom. Best-case scenario, the Circle will clear out before he even gets here, which means you’ll be safer sooner.”  
  
“The Circle is here?” Liam asks, outraged. “The people who tried to kill us?”  
  
Zayn grimaces. “If I had my way, we wouldn’t be working with them at all. But we need stheir number and their passion to supplement our forces, so yeah, they’re here. It’s politics, Your Highness—something I’m sure you’re familiar with. Yes, they tried to kill us, yes, everyone knows it, but everyone is choosing to ignore that because it’d create more problems than it’d solve. It’s unlikely they’ll try anything with you in our base and heavily guarded, and impossible that they could succeed.”  
  
Liam files all this information about the relations between the two branches of rebels away in his head; surely it will be useful once he gets out of this place. If he ever gets out . . .  
  
“How was your mission?” he asks, shrugging off the fear of being incarcerated forever.  
  
Zayn raises an eyebrow. “You know, Your Highness, I really do think that you care at least a little.”  
  
“I’m trying to figure out if your mission failed or not,” Liam replies coldly. “Surely you’re not so blind as to not recognize this as a blatant attempt to get information.”  
  
“God, you can’t take a joke, can you? And it’s not like I’m going to tell you where the mission was or even what it was. It was successful, but we lost some people. That’s all I’m going to tell you, and it’s not like you can do anything with that information.”  
  
For the first time since the other man had entered the room, Liam takes a good look at Zayn—he looks dead on his feet. There’s an ugly bruise staining the underside of his jaw, and a cut slashed over the length of his inner forearm that’s been messily stitched up and left uncovered by bandages. The mission was obviously rough on him.  
  
“Have you seen Louis yet?” Liam asks, his voice a little warmer. “He was worried about you, I could tell.”  
  
“Yeah, I went and saw him and the girls first thing.” He sounds more tired and somber now. “I know they were worried. Wish I didn’t have to be causing them so much trouble all the time, but there’s nothing I can do; I keep getting sent out.” He shakes his head abruptly. “It doesn’t matter, though, especially to you. Anything else I can get you while I’m here? Have to take a piss or something? Want to go for a quick walk?”  
  
Normally Liam would jump at the chance to stretch his legs and see more of the rebel compound, but Zayn is tired and hurt, and the rules of being a decent human being prevent Liam from troubling him further.  
  
“I’m fine, thanks. Go get some rest or something; I’m sure you could use it. You said it’d be dangerous for me to go out anyway.”  
  
Zayn snorts. “Not with me there, it wouldn’t. But suit yourself.” He walks back towards the door, his gait open and easy. “I’ll see you later, Your Highness.”  
  
It’s only until later that Liam realizes that Zayn is the first person to come into his cell unarmed. He’s not really sure what that means.  
  
***  
  
Zayn comes again the next day and brings with him two books, a stack of paper, and a pencil. He puts these material down on the table next to the food he brings and says, “These are for you.”  
  
Liam picks up the first book; it’s A Song of Ice and Fire by George R. R. Martin. “I’ve never watched the show.”  
  
“Good, so you won’t know what happens.”  
  
“I’ve never read something this long.”  
  
Zayn rolls his eyes. “You have more than enough time on your hands. I have faith in you.”  
  
“Aren’t these supposed to be really boring?”  
  
“ _Boring_?” Zayn practically yelps. “How could political fantasy novels be _boring_? They’re fascinating and you’re going to love them.” He pats the second book on the table. “If you want to warm up your reading skills, I also brought you The Hobbit. That’s an easier read.”  
  
“So you like fantasy then?” Liam asks, picking up The Hobbit and gazing down at the cover; it’s obviously been read many times.  
  
“A bit, yeah,” Zayn says, suddenly guarded, like his unexpected love for fantasy novels is a weapon that can be used against him. Liam curses the humanity of a rebel who loves other universes as much as his own, hates that he sees his love for comic book superheroes reflected in this escapist urge. Rule number one of being kidnapped: never, ever identify with your captor. Even when they’re just another human being who has not done this out of hate for you or a sick urge to hurt others, when they’re just trying to do right by the country that never gave them anything like it did to you. Especially then.  
  
“I’ll give them a read,” Liam says quietly, setting down both books. “Thanks. What’s the paper for?”  
  
“I dunno,” Zayn says, waving a hand dismissively. “If you want to doodle or keep a journal or something. Just in case you get bored of reading.”  
  
“I’ll use it to write down all my Disney prince mouse charming tips,” Liam says, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Then you won’t have to hire an exterminator anymore.”  
  
There’s a short pause, and then a smile spreads across Zayn’s face. “Did you just try to make a joke?”  
  
I might have,” Liam admits.  
  
“I’m so proud!” Zayn crows, lightly punching his shoulder. Liam can’t remember the last time someone who wasn’t Harry or Simon touched him like that, familiarly and informally like he’s a person, not the figurehead of a country that has yet to save him. “We’ll have you being a proper little rebel in no time, Your Highness.” He walks backward towards the door, still grinning. “I expect a full book report on those two when I come back, mind you.”  
  
“Come back from where?” Liam says despite himself.  
  
Zayn’s face drops a little. “I’m being sent out again. Louis will take care of you, don’t worry.”  
  
“I’m not worried about that,” Liam says impatiently. “I’m worried about—” He pauses, unsure of what the next words were about to be. “Well, I’m worried about a lot of things.”  
  
“Aren’t we all. I’ll see you around, Your Highness.”  
  
Liam watches him reach to close the door behind him, but before he can shut it all the way, he blurts out, “Oh, Zayn?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“Cover up those stitches of yours. The cut’ll get infected otherwise.”  
  
Zayn blinks and then looks down at the cut on his forearm like it’s the first time he’s noticing it. “This? Oh. Yeah. I reckon I should. Thanks.”  
  
Liam nods, suddenly deeply uncertain in what his motives had been in giving that warning. The door shuts and locks, and he’s left alone again. After a moment, he picks up the fork and begins to eat the food Zayn had brought, his mind still on the mission Zayn is leaving on. He wonders how long it will be this time. How long until Louis and his sisters will know if their adopted brother is alive or dead. How long they will be let the silence last until they accept he’s not coming back.  
  
Louis is right. Worrying about Zayn is nothing like worrying about Harry. Liam thinks he has a lot to learn about pain.  
  
***  
  
The Hobbit turns out to be exactly the kind of escape Liam needs. He reads the well-worn copy for hours on end—a process which is painstakingly slow; he never noticed how bad he is at sitting down and just reading—until he’s reached the final pages and the luminous vision of Middle Earth fades to a faintly glowing memory. It helps him block out the voices which have started to shout and argue outside his cell lately, the worries about trying to escape, the fear of the Circle finding him one day when there no one to fend them off. Perhaps trying to block everything out with fiction isn’t the most practical or productive thing to do, but it certainly keeps him from despairing, and that’s all he’s come to want anyway.  
  
“Zayn bring you those?” Louis asks when he comes in to take Liam to the bathroom and sees him engrossed in the novel.  
  
Liam nods.  
  
Louis purses his lips. “Well, I reckon it’s for the best. We’d better bring pretty boy something too. What kind of books does he like?”  
  
Liam’s actually not sure—he and Harry have never been especially inclined to reading—so he just says, “Something happy.”  
  
“I’ll ask Zayn about getting him some happy books when he gets back, then.”  
  
It looks as though Louis isn’t a big reader, either, but he does seem to possess an unshakable faith that Zayn will come back no matter what. It’s inevitable, a constant around which Louis arranges the variables in the equation of his turbulent life. He doesn’t ever consider what would happen if it were to be factored out—a fact Liam thinks is probably unhealthier than it seems. No matter how much he claims he’s prepared to “carry on” if Zayn doesn’t come back, Liam can see that Louis has never prepared himself for his brother’s death.  
  
He starts A Song of Ice and Fire next, which is a harder read and takes him five days of straight reading to get through. But Zayn was right—it’s not boring in the slightest, and he finds himself rooting for his favorite characters and deeply despising his hated ones. In the unreality of his current situation, the characters almost seem more real than the tangible floors and walls around him.  
  
It’s only after he’s finished with both books that he begins to get curious about the conversations which are happening outside his door more and more often. He works up the nerve to ask Louis about it the day after he emerges from Westeros.  
  
“Some people have found out where you are,” Louis says, pursing his lips in that Liam has noticed he does when he’s either thinking about disapproving of something or already deeply disapproving of it. “And by people I mean Circle members. So we have to be firm when we tell them that no, they can’t chop off your head because we need you alive, and also because I think it’s a bit unfair to blame your shitty uncle’s misdeeds on you when you really don’t seem to have any idea of what he’s even up to. They don’t quite seem to grasp that, though. We’re working on it.”  
  
“Who’s we?”  
  
“Me, Perrie, Josh, and Niall. Oh, and a few other people you haven’t met yet but who are willing to spend a couple hours every day hanging around outside your door looking threateningly at anyone who comes near it. Don’t worry you’re well-guarded.”  
  
“Zayn said the Circle might be leaving soon.”  
  
“Yeah, I reckon they will be. People here are getting fed up with them, so there’ll probably be a relocation of most of them to our base in Manchester.”  
  
“And then what?”  
  
Louis shoots him a confused look. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Will I be able to go home, or—”  
  
“We can’t start negotiations with your uncle until Azoff gets here. Once he does, you’ll be on your way to getting home.”  
  
“When’s he getting here?”  
  
Louis’s expression is somber. “We don’t know. Haven’t heard from him since we got here.”  
  
“Does that mean—”  
  
“Probably not.” Louis takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. “Don’t worry, Prince Charming, we’ll get you home one way or another. Your uncle is the only thing getting in the way of that.”  
  
He pats Liam’s shoulder—an echo of Zayn’s familiar touch days earlier—and walks out so quickly that Liam doesn’t have time to ask him what he means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand that's a wrap! i know this chapter was pretty much entirely based off Liam and his thoughts rather than action but i hope you didn't mind it. 
> 
> I'm starting a new job today (i should technically be getting ready to go right now) so wish me luck in training!! I'm actually more nervous than i thought i'd be lol. 
> 
> Leave comments to fund a starving writer's self-confidence, or just press that kudo button to show you care ;)) I love you all so much! catch you next week
> 
> ([tumblr](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com) and [fic post](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com/post/138359894039/viva-la-vida-by-iambluehead-pairing-zaynliam))


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ughhh sorry for the late update, I've had a crazy busy day. it's still just barely Saturday where i am, though, and this is a longer chapter than usual, so you can't be too mad, okay? 
> 
> oh, and one thing: while there is no rape on or off scene in this chapter, there is one veiled reference to sexual assault/abuse, so if you're easily triggered keep that in mind! it's in no way explicit or graphic or anything, but I figured it's better to be safe than sorry. 
> 
> I like this chapter more than i have the past couple ones, so I'm hoping you guys will enjoy it!

“What do you mean, you won’t let me in? He’s a—” The man who’s trying to get into Liam’s cell splutters, like words fail Liam’s cruelty. “We’re on the same side. He’s on the other side. This is fucked up, you protecting him like this.”  
  
Louis shrugs, still standing in doorway of Liam’s cell with his arms crossed over his chest and chin tilted up. “You tell me, Michael. But I’m not going to let you get involved with some sort of fucked up revenge killing like this. You deserve better and—” he glances over his shoulder to where Liam is standing, hunched and wary in the corner. “—this bloke deserves better. You know he’s not to blame for your brothers. You just want a scapegoat. But trust me, as the king of taking my anger out on undeserving people, it will not make you feel better.”  
  
Michael—he’s not a man, Liam realizes as he sees his face, but rather a boy—tries to dodge around Louis, but the other rebel is too fast, grabbing Michael by the shoulders and pinning him against the wall.  
  
“You know better,” Louis grits out. “Take another step towards him, and you’re no better than a Circle member. _You know better._ ”  
  
The two rebels stare at each other with the intensity of a nuclear bomb, Louis’ fingers white where they dig into Michael’s shoulders. Finally, Michael relaxes and looks away, face sagging in a way that you don’t usually see on boys not yet old enough for even uni. He looks like an old man, drained of everything but exhaustion and bitter anger.  
  
“You’re right,” he mumbles. “As always.”  
  
“As always,” Louis agrees, stepping back and clapping him on the back. “Go find Niall; I’m sure he has something for you to do, and it’ll make you feel better.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Liam watches Michael slouch away, scuffing one foot against the ground. There’s something terribly defeated about his posture.  
  
“All right?” Louis asks breezily, turning around to check on Liam.  
  
“Yeah.” Liam feels subdued—whether it’s from the acidic taste of guilt in the back of his throat that Michael had somehow managed to put there, or the fear of having his life endangered yet again, it’s hard to tell. “What happened to him?”  
  
Louis cocks his head to one side, a movement that somehow accentuates his smallness, the way his delicate frame belies his physical power and huge personality. “What d’you mean?”  
  
“He wasn’t quite . . .” Liam swallows, thinks of an old man’s expression on a young face. “He isn’t quite right, is it?”  
  
Louis purses his lips, straightens his spine like a soldier, and fixates his gaze on a spot a few feet above Liam’s head. “No, I reckon he’s not. The crown’s army killed his three adopted brothers in front of him a few months ago.” He drags his eyes down to meet Liam’s. “When I say ‘killed,’ I don’t mean they did it nice and quick with a bullet to the head, either. It took hours.”  
  
Liam feels shame—an emotion he can hardly ever remember feeling—burning deep in his gut, a reminder that if the royal army did something like that, it was because of a failure on the part of the crown. Not an intentional shortcoming, because he doesn’t believe any of the generals—men he all knows by name—would order such a thing, but because someone’s orders were not clear, or failed to see rebellious soldiers in their troop.  
  
“Why didn’t they kill him?” His throat feels scratchy.  
  
Louis’ eyes are sharp and hard as diamonds. “There’s not much point in playing a sport if there’s no one there to watch, is there, Your Highness? They let him live as a warning, because those sick sons of bitches can’t bear it if no one’s there to tell the tale of how great and mighty and powerful they are.” He draws in a deep breath and lets it out. “I’m not saying he was right to try and kill you, but you can see why he did it. The kid’s fucked up.”  
  
“I imagine he would be,” Liam whispers.  
  
Louis nods curtly and turns on his heel to walk to the door. Before he can walk out, Liam blurts, “Is Zayn back yet?”  
  
Louis freezes, shoulders rigid. “No.” The word feels round and heavy in the air between them, a fruit of born of an anxiety that will never rest until Louis has Zayn in his sight again.  
  
“Is it normal for a mission to be gone this long?” It’s been a week and a half since he last saw Zayn.  
  
“It’s not unheard of,” Louis says carefully. Liam can’t see his face, but there’s something frozen about his tone—not coldness, but an absence of movement that feels deadening. “Why do you care, Liam?”  
  
The lack of his title strikes him like a blow. “I’m done with the books he gave me,” he says, because he can think of no other reason why he could have asked, even for himself.  
  
“Of course,” Louis says, his voice savage. “Why would you give a shit about him? He’s fucking disposable to you. You don’t care whether he makes it back in one piece; you don’t care if he comes back at all. You just think about how he’s useful to you.” He stalks out of the cell and slams the door, locking it violently behind him.  
  
Liam lays down on the floor next to that little patch of sunlight slowly, letting Louis’ words sink into him, absorbing them like poisonous water. There are so many things he has hated about this ordeal so far—being along, being frightened, being in danger of death—but the worst thing, something he has never felt on this scale, is the feeling of guilt that is eating away at his chest like rust.  
  
_Am I like that?_ He hates that he’s making this about him. _Do I only care about people as long as they’re useful to me? If Zayn hadn’t been kind to me, hadn’t saved my life once, would I care if he’s coming back? Shouldn’t I hate him? Don’t I have the goddamn right to?_  
  
_Am I the monster they all think I am?_  
  
But considering that means considering that all the things they say about Simon are true—that his uncle is a man who would do anything to bring the world to its knees—and he can’t let himself do that. He can’t shatter his world like that, because after Wolverhampton, Simon is the only person he has left, even if he had hid the massive lie of the palace invasion from Liam for years.  
  
He falls asleep like that, curled on the floor next to the sunlight that has long since faded, the last thing on his mind the thought that Zayn had said that he, like Michael, had seen his family murdered in front of his eyes.  
  
***  
  
“Wake up.”  
  
Liam has become spectacular at waking up over the past few days. It used to take him at least fifteen minutes to get out of bed, but now, he’s sleeping one moment and totally alert the next.  
  
Being constantly in danger will do that to you.  
  
“Get up and grab your stuff,” Louis says, throwing a canvas tote bag at him like Liam actually has any possessions to pack. “And be quick. We’re leaving.”  
  
“Leaving where?”  
  
“Leaving the base.” Louis’ face is pinched and tired. “We’re about to raided; we’re doing an evacuation.”  
  
Liam’s not sure who they’re going to be raided by, but he doubts that it’d turn out to be worse for him than it is now.  
  
“You’re telling me to make my rescue harder?”  
  
Louis gives him a flat stare that tells him that he will pack and evacuate, or he will be dead in a matter of seconds.  
  
Liam picks up the bag and shoves some clothes into it, followed by the few toiletries he’s been given, and finally the two books Zayn gave him. He has nothing else, but he doubts this is the time or place to complain about it.  
  
Louis cuffs Liam’s wrist to his own—there goes his chance of escape—and drags him out into the hallway. Perrie has Harry cuffed to her wrist; he looks tired and miserable, but visibly brightens when he sees Liam.  
  
“Keep quiet, keep your head down, and keep moving,” Louis says. “We don’t want any problems.”  
  
Liam interprets this as _we don’t necessarily_ want _to shoot you, but we will if it comes down to that._  
  
They take a few sharp turns, a crowd of rebels steadily growing around them. At first, this makes Liam afraid—are they really all here to gawk at him and Harry?—but he soon realizes that everyone is evacuating. They’re leaving their base, their safe spot, their fortress. They don’t have time for him or Harry, because whoever they’re expecting to make the raid isn’t going to be leaving survivors. That’s the only way you could get a group of people this calm and efficient—if you threatened them with death as an alternative.  
  
Finally, everyone emerges into the chilly early-morning air; the sun has barely risen, and a warm glow around the eastern horizon is the only sign that it’s not the dead of night. Everyone’s breath is frosting into white clouds midair, a sight that reminds Liam nonsensically of the way Louis had stress smoked back in the van. He could probably use a ciggie right now, he thinks, and has to suppress a smile at the thought for some reason.  
  
They’re bundled into a small fleet of cars that are waiting for them, everyone still tense and quiet. Liam clutches his canvas tote to his chest and realizes he doesn’t even have one thing he brought from home with him. They’d left everything in the first van, and he hadn’t even noticed till now.  
  
“Louis,” Perrie says quietly, “does Zayn know we’re moving? Or anyone who’s out on a mission, for that matter?”  
  
“We contacted everyone we could.” Louis draws in a deep breath like he’s inhaling smoke. “Zayn wasn’t one of those people, because he wasn’t allowed to take his phone with him this time.”  
  
“Was he one of the group that left for London a few days ago?”  
  
“Yeah,” Louis says grimly.  
  
“Well, no wonder,” Perrie says, slouching back in her seat unhappily. “It’s basically guaranteed at least one of them is going to get caught; we can’t have a rebel phone in the crown’s hands. Too much info at risk.”  
  
“I know.” Louis stares out the window and then adds, softer, “Doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.”  
  
“He’s a smart kid. He’ll figure it out and find you. Find us.”  
  
“I know,” Louis repeats, but his face is made of stone.  
  
The ride is quiet and the mood is unhappy; everyone is more sullen than afraid. Liam has the feeling that this has happened so many times that it has lost a good deal of its terror once the immediate danger is gone. A few people send him and Harry nasty looks now that everything has settled down. Liam swallows his guilt and carries their anger on his shoulders like armor.  
  
Eventually, the man driving the bus—Josh, the bloke who’s brought Liam food a couple times—turns on some music, and the general atmosphere of the car lifts little. A bit of chatter breaks out and Liam no longer feels like target, leaving him free to study the other passengers without being noticed too much.  
  
Most the rebels are surprisingly young, Louis’ age or even younger, but they all have that impossibly old look that Michael had worn. It makes him wonder what they’ve seen in their short lives, which then makes him angry that he cares. He is so done with caring.  
  
He glances over at Harry, who’s sitting two seats away, still cuffed to Perrie. It doesn’t feel like a short enough distance to conduct a conversation, especially because never they would talk about they’d want the rebels to hear, but the other boy sends him a small, encouraging smile and a thumbs-up with his free hand. His eyes are shining with tears, and it’s only upon noticing this detail that Liam remembers that every turn of the bus’s wheels takes them farther away from rescue, that this is yet another botched escape attempt, that as a royal, Liam has done a pretty damn terrible job of fighting the threat to the crown. And worst of all, there’s nothing he can do to comfort Harry, because he’s in the same damn position: helpless.  
  
He falls asleep listening to Louis’ steady breathing next to him. Or, at least it would be steady if it wasn’t periodically broken by the faintest catch of breath, like he’s trying very hard not to cry. Liam knows, intuitively, that he is upset by the thought of leaving Zayn behind, by the thought of Zayn being dead or unable to find them.  
  
He does not allow himself to feel any pity.  
  
***  
  
They arrive at another base a few hours away—it looks exactly the same as the last one, except that his cell is more comfortable, and has an actual window. When Liam asks Louis about this, Louis says, “The last cell was more secure. Don’t be too thrilled about being moved.”  
  
“I don’t think I could break out of either of them,” Liam admits, jiggling the doorknob to test it before sitting down.  
  
Louis gives him a long stare. “It’s not about keeping you in. It’s about keeping other people out.”  
  
“Did the Circle come with us?”  
  
“Of course,” Louis says. His jaw works a little. “They’re part of us. We have to protect them like our own.”  
  
It’s obvious that this is a party line, and moreover one that Louis isn’t particularly happy with.  
  
“They tried to kill you,” Liam points out, because it seems like it needs saying. “They actually tried to kill all of us.”  
  
“Politics, impersonality, you’ve heard it all before,” Louis says tiredly. “I’m sure the crown does diplomatic relations with people it doesn’t like, people who distrust it and disagree with it and have no qualms about stabbing it in the back at the first opportunity. That doesn’t mean the partnership can’t be solid and profitable up until the breaking point.”  
  
“This sounds like something you shouldn’t be telling someone who’s on the other side.”  
  
“There aren’t just two sides,” Louis says with a shrug. “And trust me, there’s nothing I can tell you about rebel politics that the crown doesn’t already know by now.”  
  
“Not much point in running a rebellion that’s out in the open, is there?”  
  
“Actually, that’s the only point of staging a rebellion.” Louis turns towards the door, and then turns back. He’s unexplainably in a better mood than he had been the last time Liam had seen him—maybe Perrie had been able to comfort him about Zayn on the bus, or maybe he’s gotten some news. Or maybe he’s gotten better at hiding it. “D’you want me to bring Harry in for a little bit? Everyone’s busy settling down; I don’t think anyone would mind.”  
  
“I would love that,” Liam says sincerely, disgusting himself a little with the rush of gratitude that comes with Louis’ kindness. “Thanks, Louis.”  
  
“Anything for king and country,” Louis says grandly, and sweeps out of the room, locking the door behind him.  
  
A moment later he returns trailing Harry, who looks tired and unhappy, which wrenches at Liam’s heartstrings after his attempt at positivity on the bus.  
  
“I’ll leave you two to it,” Louis says. “I’ll be back in an hour for you, okay, pretty boy? We can’t let this little rendezvous go on for longer than that.”  
  
“You got it,” Harry says, a touch of color coming into his voice at Louis’ words. “And don’t call me pretty boy.”  
  
“You called me peasant when I woke you up to evacuate this morning, I’m entitled to call you whatever I want.” Louis sashays to the door. “I’ll see you soon, bitches. Don’t go anywhere.”  
  
He chuckles at his little joke and locks the door behind him after flinging a haphazard peace sign over his shoulder.  
  
“Why’s he in such a good mood?”  
  
“He found out his sisters and mom got out of the other base okay; he was worried about them,” Harry says, flopping down on the bed.  
  
Liam is surprised; he hadn’t expected Harry to actually have an answer. “How’d you know that?”  
  
Harry snorts. “I’m a less high-security prisoner than you, Liam. I think they’re a little more willing to let things slip around me.” He stretches languidly like a cat, a familiar movement that brings a faint smile to Liam’s lips.  
  
“Do you know if Duke Horan got out okay?”  
  
Harry quirks an eyebrow. “He went back to the palace a few days ago, Liam.” His face darkens abruptly. “He can’t blow his cover by being away for too long.”  
  
“What he did was unforgivable,” Liam says quietly, because the hurt of Niall’s betrayal still aches within him like a bruise left by one of the hardest punches of this whole ordeal. “But—he was our friend once. I wanted to know.”  
  
Harry nods slowly, and then says, “I hate myself for asking this, but do you ever think that—we could be them?”  
  
“I’m not quite getting you,” Liam admits. “What do you mean by that?”  
  
“Like, do you ever look at Louis and Zayn or even Niall and think that if something had turned out differently, we would be doing exactly the same thing?”  
  
“I don’t think I could ever kill someone the way they do,” Liam says honestly. “But maybe—I don’t know. I think that if I was as desperate and angry as they are, yes, maybe. I don’t think we’re all that different than them.”  
  
“All that time thinking they were monsters,” Harry muses. “And now this. I feel like a fucking idiot.”  
  
“Why’s that?”  
  
“Because,” Harry says seriously, “I let myself forget who the real bad guys are.”  
  
Liam’s eyebrows shoot up. “I hate to say this, but that sounds a bit like treason, Harry.”  
  
Harry meets his gaze defiantly. “I’m not saying His Majesty is the bad guy here, Liam. I’m saying that anyone who makes war like this—anyone who forgets that their politics and actions have consequences on the common man—anyone who doesn’t care about collateral damage and what it can do to people—those are the bad guys. There are people like that among the nobles, and there are people like that in the rebellion, probably. No one should ever forget that they have the power to hurt other people, because this is what happens when you do. All the weak people who you’ve hurt decide they’re tired of being weak, and so they make themselves strong.”  
  
There’s a long silence between them. Liam feels like they’ve both aged a hundred years since the last time they had a real conversation.  
  
“You’re right,” he says finally. “When we get back, we have to stop this.”  
  
Harry nods, and does not say anything more. They move on to other topics—something lighter, like how the meals have been, and how much they want a proper bath rather than a five minute rinse down in the rebels’ freezing showers. For a moment, it feels almost normal, and Liam clings to that nostalgia like a lifeline.  
  
After all, it’s all he has left.  
  
***  
  
Two more days drag by at the new base; Liam has a new set of floor tiles to count in his spare time, but it’s hardly riveting, and he quickly grows restless. He thinks that after the close brush with rescue, and the fleeting glimpse of the outside world from van, he’s becoming more frustrated with his situation—something that could quickly become dangerous, given that being frustrated often leads to being reckless, and being reckless could quickly lead to being dead, in his case.  
  
He doesn’t see Harry after that first day, a fact that’s probably due to Louis becoming increasingly depressed over Zayn’s continuing absence. Despite the rebel’s good spirits the day they’d arrived at the base, it’s obvious that Louis is getting antsy over the fact no one has heard from or of Zayn since he’d left.  
  
This continues for another two days, when Louis walks into Liam’s cell and plunks a tray down on the table. He stays to talk with Liam for a moment—it’s become not unusual for them to exchange a few words when Louis brings him food or takes him to bathroom, mainly because Liam is forced to be civil if he wants any human contact at all—and is just about to leave when a voice from the doorway says, “’Ey, Lou.”  
  
Louis freezes and then flies to the doorframe, flinging his arms around the figure that leans against it. “I thought you were fucking dead,” he says, his voice muffled in Zayn’s shoulder. “Don’t fucking do that to me again.”  
  
“Didn’t mean to; we got held up,” Zayn says. Liam can’t see his face because it’s buried in the crook of Louis’ neck, but he sounds genuinely repentant. “You know I hate having you lot worry about me. How are the girls and your mum?”  
  
“Alive, thank God. Worried about you. What are you doing down here? Have you seen them?”  
  
“Someone told me you were down here and I wanted to come see you before anything else,” Zayn says as they pull away from each other, to Liam’s relief—he’d had the feeling he was witnessing something private at such a public display of their bond.  
  
And then Zayn looks up, and Liam feels like he’s been punched.  
  
Which is ironic, because it’s obviously Zayn who’s been punched. Hard. And many times.  
  
His face is a swollen mask, nearly unrecognizable in its distortion. Someone’s clearly beaten the shit out of him, erasing all traces of his sharply angular bone structure under swelling and bruises that make him look grotesque. When Zayn sees Liam and Louis staring, he shoots them a defensive smirk that’s a far cry from his usual sideway teasing smile and shrugs ruefully. It hurts to watch him move his face.  
  
“Zayn,” Louis breathes out, “what the fuck happened?”  
  
“When I say we got held up, I mean we were jail for two days awaiting execution,” Zayn says lightly. “By which I mean someone set us up, and we got fucking caught.” He shakes his head; all three of them wince in unison. “Anyway—some of the guards decided I was too pretty. The solution was obvious.” Louis lets out a guttural noise of anger from deep in his throat as Zayn gestures to his mutilated features with a grand flick of the wrist.  
  
“Did they do anything else?” Louis asks, clenching his fists at his sides. He’s practically vibrating with anger. “Zayn, did they try anything else? I know how they can be when—”  
  
“No, no, this was the worst of it,” Zayn reassures him quickly. “I think they probably got off to this more than they would have with anything else, though. They were that type.”  
  
Liam isn’t sure what that type is, but Louis lets out a snort that’s born of anger more than amusement.  
  
“Well, regardless, you should have gotten treated before you came and saw me,” the older rebel scolds. “You’re going to give the girls nightmares, walking in like that.”  
“Like they’ll be able to do anything for me in the infirmary,” Zayn scoffs. “They’ll give me the world’s biggest ice pack and tell me to take it easy for the next couple days. Bright side is that I won’t be sent out again for a while.”  
  
“True. Do go get ice, though, okay? And then come back to the flat and we’ll catch up on everything.”  
  
“You got it.” They gently bump fists, and Zayn turns to Liam.  
  
“Sorry to interrupt your meal with all this, Your Highness. I’m sure you don’t want my Wade Wilson-esque face spoiling your appetite.”  
  
“Looks more like Tony Stark after Civil War to me,” Liam says before he can help it, and Zayn looks delighted—or, at least, as delighted as he can managed.  
  
“Oh, no, you are not getting him started on his dumb superheroes,” Louis says. “Zayn, get your arse up to the infirmary before I kick it again myself.”  
  
“Yessir.” Zayn salutes sharply and then says, “I’m team Cap, by the way.”  
  
“Same!” Liam says. “I’d always—”  
  
“ _Infirmary_ ,” Louis thunders, and Zayn rolls his eyes and walks out.  
  
Liam doesn’t start eating for a while after they leave. There’s a strange warm feeling in his chest, a feeling that has not been there for weeks but now seeps into his veins and takes his body by storm, diffusing all the tension that has built up lately.  
  
It takes him a few tries, but he finally identifies it as relief.  
  
***  
  
The next day, when the door opens for lunch, it’s not Louis that walks in with the food, but Zayn, carrying two trays for some reason.  
  
“I’m going to join you today,” he announces, “for two reasons. Number one, Louis’ been assigned to another part of the base for a while, and now I’m bored as hell, and number two, I think you’ve been in here long enough that you haven’t see the new Batman Vs Superman trailer. I’m a Marvel man meself, but I’d peg you for DC, so I’d reckon you’d like to see it.”  
  
“You’re right.” Liam says, surprised, and the corner of Zayn’s mouth jerks up before he winces and forces it back down. “I’m team Batman, forever and always, just so you know.”  
  
“Me too,” Zayn says approvingly, setting the trays down on the table. “So anyway, we’re going to have a nice little lunch together, so I can explain to you why Marvel’s superhero vs superhero movie is going to be so much better than DC’s.”  
  
“I’m about to prove why DC is going to have the best movie adaption of the year in two words,” Liam says. “Suicide Squad.”  
  
Zayn grins. “Deadpool’ll give it a run for its money, but I’m excited for Suicide Squad, too.”  
  
They start eating, throwing back and forth a little banter about their favorite comics and arguing over which ones are the best. Sitting and having lunch and making small talk with someone feels weirdly normal—more normal and natural than almost anything Liam’s done in his life, which strikes him as slightly ironic.  
  
After a while, he notices that Zayn has a massive thermos and an enormous water bottle with him; he takes alternating swigs out of them as he eats, drinking at an even faster pace than he’s eating at.  
  
“M’dehydrated,” he says when Liam asks him about it. “So I’m supposed to drink like, however many liters over the next couple days. This—” he holds up the thermos “—is caffeinated tea, because I feel like a zombie, and coffee apparently dehydrates you more than it helps, and then the bottle just has water. Unsurprisingly, I’m pissing at a rate you wouldn’t believe.”  
  
“Why are you dehydrated?” Liam asks, frowning and ignoring Zayn's attempt to turn it into a joke.  
  
Zayn snorts and takes another gulp of water. “Because prison guards are _dicks_ , especially when you’re sentenced to kick it for being a rebel. You try not having anything to drink for two days straight.”  
  
“Royal prison guards did—” Liam breaks off, feeling a little sick.  
  
“I wasn’t aware there was another type of prison guard,” Zayn says dryly, looking like he was going to raise an eyebrow but then thought better of it. His face looks, if anything, worse than it had yesterday; the bruises are a deeper shade of purple, and the swelling has gone from grotesque to frightening.  
  
And somehow, the abuse of prisoners has escaped the crown’s attention. This probably happens all the time. Liam swears that when he gets back, he’ll convince Simon of the terrible conditions of prisons and get on making some changes, because there’s no way his uncle knows about this.  
  
“Does your face hurt?” he asks.  
  
“Like a bitch,” Zayn says cheerfully. “It’s all right, though—it’s gotten me out of missions for the next two weeks, cause I’m too conspicuous to get anything done, looking like this.”  
  
“Why do you get assigned so many missions?” Liam asks. “Like, Louis hasn’t gone on one since you lot captured us.”  
  
“A few reasons. I’m the second best sharp-shooter this branch of the rebellion has—the first is your friend Niall, and he can’t be here most of the time—and I’m great in hand-to-hand combat even when I’m unarmed, which means I can go somewhere where I can’t bring weapons, and still be able to defend myself, which is always handy. Also, there’s this policy we have that if you die on a mission, your family gets a stipend to help them get by without your money. Louis has a big family that would need a lot of money if he got taken out, so they’re reluctant to send him out and risk paying up. I, on the other hand, technically have no family, and so there’s no reason for them to hold me back.” He shrugs. “I don’t mind, most of the time. It keeps Louis out of trouble, and I can’t ask for more than that.”  
  
After that, however, he firmly closes the topic and steers it back towards superheroes. They watch the Batman Vs Superman trailer on Zayn’s phone, and laugh about how gay it looks—Liam loves that when Zayn says this, he does not mean it as an insult—and then rant a little about the comics.  
  
Zayn leaves a bit after that, and Liam is left alone with his thoughts. Specifically, he thinks about the royal guards, and everything he’s heard about them, and everything he doesn’t want to believe about them, because believing those things would mean the crown is at least a little responsible for the horror that has been unleashed on the rebels time and again.  
  
But as much as he doesn’t want to believe it, the thoughts settling into his bones and stay there, and he can’t get them out. So maybe it’s not surprising—maybe it’s inevitable—that when Louis brings his dinner, he blurts out,  
  
“Remember when you said you’d arrange for me to see what my uncle’s done to people? I’m ready to see that now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you were wondering, the lack of my usual nine paragraph rambling author's notes is because my eyes are burning from exhaustion and that tends to shut me up quite effectively. so i'll save the stuff i wanted to tell you about fic formatting until next chapter because it's not pressing and i'm tired as hell and want to sleep. thank you everyone who's commented and left kudos so far, you guys are the best, and i love you all. I'm gonna go pass out now, see you next week!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys....i just figured out that if i post using the rich text format rather than the html code format i don't have to go and code in the italics and line breaks myself....i feel so fuckin stupid lmao why didn't i try that before??
> 
> IN ANY CASE here's the next chapter! shit goes down, as promised. and it's posted at a decent hour instead of however late at night i did it last week, too! *pats myself on the back*. two wins in one day. unbelievable. 
> 
> okay, hope you enjoy this one! more rambling at the end as always.

Harry refuses to go.

            Liam won’t pretend he’s not a little disappointed. In what, he’s not exactly sure, but—he’d just thought that Harry would have come. He’d taken it for granted.

            At least it’s not the first unpleasant surprise he’s gotten over the past two weeks.

            So he ends up sitting with Zayn, Louis and Michael in a car that a girl named Lauren is driving—Louis keeps up a steady rate of banter with her, teasing her about her girlfriend and swapping celebrity gossip, while Michael asks Zayn a long stream of questions about going on missions. Liam feels out of place and uneasy, but somehow less so than usual. It’s not a feeling of belonging, per say, but he does feel that everyone in car resents him less for at least being willing to try seeing things from their point of view. Who knows. Maybe when he gets back, this could give him an invaluable insight into the rebel mind.

            They don’t drive for too long—nothing like the endless hours and days Liam’s used to by now—only a few hours, by his estimation. Zayn puts on music, something that Liam is starting to think is another passion of his, plugging his phone into the aux cord and shouting down Louis’ protests that all he plays is bad music before turning on Kanye West’s Gold Digger.

            “It’s a classic, Louis, you can’t just not like it,” he insists, and Liam catches Louis bobbing his head along to it eventually.

            The two hour drive flies by, and before long they’re pulling into a dingy town like any other that resides on the outskirts of an industrial city in England—the air is clogged with smoke, and the people look equal parts belligerent and exhausted. Liam estimates that they’re probably somewhere in the north, maybe Yorkshire. It’s not a thought that comforts him; the rebellion in strongest in the northern parts of the country, where the people are poorer and angrier—a thought that’s particularly been on his mind lately, brought there by Louis and Zayn’s northern accents and dead family members. Maybe corruption is worse up here or something.

            “Okay,” Zayn says as they get out of the car, Louis and Michael carrying two boxes of unknown contents each. “So. We brought you here cos we had to do a supply run anywhere, but keep in mind that while this town is a little poorer and more rebellion prone than most, meaning they’ve been hit a little harder by the royal army, most of what you see here you could find in any middle or lower class town in England. It’s not going to be pretty.”

            Liam’s throat is dry as the ash that the factories on the skyline belch into the sky. “All right.”

            “Keep your head down, stick with me unless I tell you otherwise, and don’t tell anyone who you are. If they ask, say you’re with me and they should leave you alone. If they press you further or recognize you, say you’re thinking of joining the cause.” When Liam opens his mouth to protest, Zayn holds up both hands. “I don’t care if you aren’t, that’s what’s going to keep you from getting your throat slit. People are angry at the crown, and even though most people don’t blame you, I don’t think that’ll stop them from taking it out on you.”

            “Got it,” Liam mutters.          

            “All right. Oh, and for God’s sake try not to make a run for it, okay? You wouldn’t do well on your own here, trust me. This isn’t no downtown London.”

            Louis snorts. “Is Lauren going to help us with supplies, then, while you take ‘im around?”

            “For a bit, yeah. I’ve got some overdue visits to make later, so I’ll probably leave him with you then. Don’t want to risk anything.”

            “You got it.” Louis mock-salutes him and spins on his heel. “Let’s go incite treason among the common folk.”

            “That’s the spirit,” Lauren says, and they march off together, shoving each other around and swapping dirty jokes. They look shockingly normal for people on an illicit mission seeking to overthrow the government. 

            “Right, then, follow me,” Zayn says, and he and Liam set off together briskly.

            “Where are we going?” Liam asks as he trails after Zayn.

            “I’m just going to take you around a bit. There are a few things that you should see, if you really want to get a sense of what’s been going on while you were cloistered away in that palace of yours.”

            Liam doesn’t think he’s ever heard someone use the word _cloistered_ in real life before.

            “What sort of things?”

            Zayn just gives him a serious look and walks a little faster.

            Liam, not for the first time, sizes up his odds of escaping: one unarmed prince whose only defense is a few years of boxing—a relatively naïve royal without a kill to his name who could only run further into a hostile environment at this point—versus a trained killer with a gun and few qualms about using it. The only thing he has going for him is the fact that Zayn is still exhausted and beat up from his mission, but even then, he probably wouldn’t stand a chance in a fight against the other man.        

            It’s strange and disturbing, though, to think that that thinking of Zayn as what he is—a killer who doesn’t give a damn about Liam or Harry or Simon—when he’s seen the other sides of Zayn as well: the man who fiercely cares about his best friend and his family, the man who avidly reads fantasy novels and loves comic books, the man who’s been so deeply hurt by the royal army in so many ways that he’d probably be justified if he was ever cruel to Liam, the man who doesn’t mind being sent on dangerous mission because it keeps Louis safe, the man who brings Liam books and food and tries to make him comfortable. The whole thought makes Liam deeply uneasy, that someone can have ideology so fundamentally different from his, and still be a good person. That maybe what he’s been told his whole life isn’t the only true way of looking at things, or even a true way at all.

            The streets are generally empty as they walk down them—Liam has the feeling that Zayn is avoiding crowded area for Liam’s sake—but a few people occasionally walk by. An even fewer number of these will sometimes give Zayn a nod that bespeaks respect and even admiration, or stop briefly to clap him on the shoulder and murmur a few words that surely convey approval. A few people ask who they need to go after for what’s happened to Zayn’s face. Zayn laughs these comments off— _nah, it’s fine, you should see the other guy_ —and offers a few words in return to those who greet him. Despite his young age and commoner status, he’s obviously a man people recognize and respect. This, more than anything, brings the words of that soldier’s report all that time ago back to Liam: _the people are with us._

            The people, if nothing else, are obviously with Zayn.

            Liam’s heart is drumming unevenly in his chest by the time they stop walking; things are rapidly crumbling around him in a way he would have never thought possible. It makes his insides turn to water—the fear, this time, is not for his life, but rather the acute and enormous possibility that he is wrong, that everything be believes is built on ashes and blood and anger.

            They are in front of a burned down house—the damage looks fairly recent, but Zayn steps fearlessly into the unstable ruin like it’s made of solid stone.

            “Come here,” he says. His voice is calm, matter of fact. “You need to see this.”

            Liam steps into the charred wood beams beside him and stares at the ruin of what obviously was once a kitchen. “What’s there to see, exactly?”

            Zayn encompasses the whole wrecked house in a sweeping gesture. “This. Your soldiers came here and did this.”

            “And why’s that?” Liam’s voice is colder than it’s ever been. It’s so goddamn cheap and easy, coming here and showing him a ruin that could have been made this way by anything, not just royal soldiers.

            “The mother of the family that lived here refused to fuck one of the colonels in the division here,” Zayn says, still utterly clam. “So he ordered his men to burn the place to the ground. They did a pretty good job, yeah?”

            “You don’t have any proof,” Liam snarls. “Anyone could have done this.”

            Zayn cocks his head to one side, regarding him with unforgiving golden eyes. “They videotaped it, Your Highness. Would you like me to pull it up on my phone? Tell me, have you ever heard the screams of two kids while they watch their mother burn to death, or the sound of laughter while those same kids feel the flesh melt off their bones? This happened two days ago. The skeletons are still here, if you walk in a bit further.”

            “I want to see the video,” Liam says, tilting his chin up. He has no desire to see it, but he wants proof. He wants irrefutable proof before he believes anything.

            Zayn shrugs, pulls his phone out of his pocket, and thumbs it open. His browser is already open to an American news website; all it takes is a few taps, and a video appears on the screen. It’s undeniably the same house they’re standing in. It’s undeniably burning.

            The camera jolts, turns away from the glowing wreckage of the house and the shrill animalistic screams of the people inside, and lands on someone. Colonel Morter.

            Liam nearly throws up.

            John Morter is a man he’s known all his life, the person who was in charge of his personal guard for a while, a soldier he’d trusted with his life time and again. And he’s here, in this hellish video, listening to a woman and her children slowly burn to death without lifting a finger, because he was the one who struck the match.

            “Turn it off,” Liam says, turning away and staring resolutely at the grey sky, where at least there are no flames to haunt him. “Turn it off.”

            “We’re trying,” Zayn says, so softly Liam’s not sure he was supposed to hear it, but he pauses the video anyway, and turns off his phone.

            “Those people—they’re in here, somewhere, they’re—”

            Zayn nods. “No one’s had time to come bury them yet. Things like this happen all the time, you have to understand that. So people have to clean up after the last disaster before they can tend to this one.”

            Liam draws in a deep breath. He feels like the heavy, rain-ready sky—nearly ready to start weeping down on the dry, bloodthirsty ground, but holding the droplets back by some miracle of will. “Can we keep moving?” His voice shakes.

            Zayn nods again, turning to step carefully out of the ruins of the house. Liam’s ears are still filled with screams, and his boots track black ash behind him as he steps out onto the pavement. He thinks he understands what Zayn had said before.

            This horror is not just contained to one video, and it’s proving difficult to turn off.

***

            The next stop is the downtown. It’s deserted, the windows shattered, and the walls bullet-pocked. The businesses that should have been bustling are empty of customers and unattended by employees. It looks like a ghost town.

            “There was a military shoot-out a few weeks ago,” Zayn explains. “People here were protesting the higher taxes your uncle implemented three months ago—they were making it impossible for businesses here to survive. People were starving, struggling to stay in business, desperate for money and jobs. But the army still came and taught everyone a lesson. Keep your mouth shut, or pay for it in blood.” He shrugs. “Didn’t work, of course. People will only put up with oppression for so long before they get angry, and people here have been plenty angry for long enough that this was a match dropped into some very dry tinder. If anything, this made the support for the rebellion even stronger than ever here.”

            “Did people die?” Liam asks. His throat is dry—he thinks his blurry eyes have sucked all the moisture out of it.

            “Of course people died. Someone I used to know died.”

            Liam doesn’t ask for proof this time. He doesn’t want to find out which one of his guards or friends or advisors committed this atrocity.

            They make a stop at the graveyard, where Zayn points out a few tombstones with the names of people who’d died in the shoot-out. They stop at what used to be an old person’s home before it had to close because of taxes put on it because a local noble didn’t like the owner. They stop at the homeless shelter—it’s full of old people whose gazes Liam can’t meet. They stop at another burned down house. They stop near a factory, where the smoke is so thick in the air that Liam can feel himself getting lung cancer just from inhaling.

            “The people who work in there breathe this for fifteen hours a day,” Zayn tells him. “If they worked any less, they wouldn’t be able to feed their families.”

            The body count keeps piling up, and piling up, and piling up. Liam never thought this much misery could live in one place.

            Eventually, Zayn tells him that they’re done. Not because that’s all there is to see, but because Zayn has to get somethings done, and the others are probably finished with supply runs by now. Liam wonders what kind of supplies they’re bringing to the people here. He has a feeling it’s not anything to make peace with.

            “It’s food and money,” Zayn says, as if he can read Liam’s mind.

            “What?”

            Zayn shoots him a sideways glance. “We don’t bring them weapons, if that’s what you’re wondering. We just bring them stuff to help the families here get by.”

            “Why not?” Liam bursts. “They probably want weapons. They probably want revenge.”

            “Two reasons. First, the people here have families and livelihoods and friends. They want to protect those things. Giving them weapons would probably just result in more punishment. We just want to help the people here survive; we don’t want more death. Second, if things get too bad, or if someone wants a better life, which army do you think they’ll end up joining for extra money—the one that burned down their house and killed their children, or the one that brought them food when they were starving?”

            Liam is silent. He has never felt a sickness like this—a sickness with himself and his family and everything he stands for. He has never felt so wrong.

            “Zayn!” a voice calls from behind them.       

            Zayn pauses, his entire face lighting up as suddenly as a peek of sun from behind thick clouds, and turns around. “Ahad!”

            Liam turns with him to see a boy on crutches hobbling down the deserted street after them. He’s small—not more than ten—and skinny underneath baggy clothes that do little to disguise his sharp elbows and knobbly knees.

            Zayn closes the distance between the two of them in three quick steps, crouching down so he’s eye to eye with the boy. “How’re you doing, hm?”

            Ahad shrugs, carefully lying down his crutches to give Zayn a hug. “Not bad. Not as bad as you, apparently.”

            “What makes you say that?” Zayn sounds amused as he carefully returns the hug. Liam stands awkwardly behind him, unsure of what to do.

            “Your face is all beat up,” Ahad says. “But I reckon you got the other guy just as good, yeah?”

            “Yeah,” Zayn says without missing a beat. “M’fine, anyway. Looks worse than it is. How’s your mum? You lot stayin’ safe?”

            “Yeah.” Ahad scuffs his shoe into the ground. “They say I’ll need a wheelchair soon. I think she’s worried about that. But she’s okay, still safe and everything.”

            “A wheelchair?” Zayn says. His voice is still light, but Liam can catch the barest undertone of worry. “Well, that’s okay, innit? You know who else had a wheelchair?”

            “No.”

            “Professor X,” Zayn says, “from the X-Men? You know him. He has a wheelchair, but he’s still telepathic, and runs the X-Men, and kicks arse. You’ll be fine, yeah? Maybe it’ll give you some telepathic powers. ”

The younger boy seems to brighten a little at this.

“You’d let me be part of your X-Men, right?” Zayn continues, “Cause I’d want you calling the shots if it came down to it. Best superhero commander ever, you’d be.”

“And you’re the best superhero ever,” Ahad says seriously, like he believes that Zayn really does have superpowers. “How’s Louis?”

            “Better than ever. He hasn’t majorly pissed anyone off in, like, a week.”

            Ahad’s laugh rings out in the empty streets, an infusion of life into the deadened air. And then his gaze falls on Liam.

            His face freezes.

            “Zayn, I—” And then it’s terror that’s taking over his expression, terror that’s making him stumble backwards without his crutches, and Liam has never felt more like a monster than he does in that moment.

            Zayn glances back at Liam and deliberately moves so that his body is in between Liam and Ahad, a wall to ward off any danger. Liam stands there, unable to move. He doesn’t want to scare the boy any further.

            “Hey, Ahad, listen, it’s okay—”        

            “Did he—is he—” but the younger boy is hyperventilating too much to get any words out, and all he can do is wobble back another unsteady step, eyes wide.

            Zayn looks at Liam again, a crease between his eyebrows, and then back at Ahad, crouching down the younger boy’s level again and starting to speak rapidly in a language Liam doesn’t recognize but would be willing to bet is Arabic. He catches his own name mixed in with the unfamiliar sounds; he has no idea what Zayn is saying, but it relaxes Ahad enough that the boy stops trying to get away from Liam. Liam tries to look as unthreatening as possible.

            “So don’t worry, okay?” Zayn finishes, reaching out to put both hands on Ahad’s shoulders. “You’re safe with me, right?”

            “Right,” Ahad mumbles, and then adds something else in the same language.

            Zayn turns back to Liam. “He wants to talk to you.”

            “Yeah,” Liam says softly. “He can do that.”

            “Okay.” Zayn claps Ahad on the shoulder and stands up. “I’m right here, yeah?”  

            “Yeah.” Ahad grabs his crutches and hobbles towards Liam, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You’re really the prince, then?”

            Liam nods.

            “Zayn says you’re not a bad guy, though.”

            Liam swallows. “I don’t know if I am anymore,” he admits. “I’m glad he doesn’t think so.”

            Ahad seems to accept this answer. “He says you haven’t hurt anyone, not like your uncle.”

            “That’s right.”

            “You won’t hurt him, yeah?” This question is delivered with the sort of piercing gaze only a child can deliver.

            “I won’t hurt him.”

            “Okay. Or anyone else?”

            “Or anyone else,” Liam repeats, hoping he’s not making promises he won’t be able to keep. “I don’t want to hurt anyone, Ahad. I want to help people. That’s what a king should do.”

            “So when you go back and see the king, you’ll tell him that he shouldn’t be hurting people? Superheroes shouldn’t get hurt by the bad guys, that’s not how it works.”

            “Yeah, I know. That’s not how it should work at all.”

            “But every time I see Zayn, he’s gotten hurt by one of the bad guys,” Ahad says bluntly. “And a lot of the other people that come here with him, they’ve gotten hurt too. We all have. You’re going to stop that, right?”

            _God, I hope I can_. “I’ll try.”

            “Okay.” Ahad turns away from him without further ceremony, and it’s only then that Liam realizes that this young boy who most likely has not a cent to his name, has been speaking to the crown prince of England like they’re equals. Liam thinks that’s how it should always be. No one should be afraid of their king.

            “Can you come back home with me?” Ahad asks Zayn, and Zayn shakes his head regretfully.

            “I have one more stop to make, and we’re heading back to base soon. But I’ll see you soon, yeah? Oh, and—” he digs in his pocket for a moment “—give this to your mum, yeah? To help you lot out with the wheelchair.”

            “Zayn.” Ahad frowns down at the wad of money Zayn’s put in his hand. “She won’t want—”

            “Take it,” Zayn says firmly.

            “They don’t pay you enough for you to afford this,” Ahad says in a flat voice, and it hurts Liam that a boy so young would even have the capacity to worry about money. “We can’t take it.”

            “I got a bonus for all the shit that led up to this,” Zayn says, gesturing to his bruised face. “M’serious. Take it. You need it more than I do.”

            Ahad sighs and tucks the money into his own pocket. “I’ll see you soon.” It’s a promise, not a question.

            “Yeah. Stay safe, yeah?”

            “We’ll be the safest,” he says with the whisper of a grin. “You stay safe too; my mum says the next time you get hurt she’s going to tie you down so you can’t go on any more missions.”

            Zayn laughs, genuine and carefree. “We’ll see about that. Bye, Ahad.”

            “Bye.”

            Zayn and Liam turn together and begin walking again. Liam glances back at Ahad’s receding figure; he’s small and pathetic in the shadow of the ashy buildings lining the street.

            “How do you know him?” he asks Zayn finally. “He thinks a lot of you.”

            “His mum knew me older sister—a few years older than her, but they were best friends. I didn’t really keep in touch with her after me family died, but a few years back our paths crossed again and I ended up saving her and Ahad’s lives.” He shrugs. “S’a small world, innit. Anyway, I try and look out for them as best as I can. He’s got a disease that’s fuckin’ with his legs, and the treatment is expensive, so they’d be in a bad way if they didn’t have someone to help them out.”

            “Oh,” Liam says in a small voice. “What language was it that you two were speaking?”

            “Urdu. I think his mum used to speak it to him a lot when he was younger; it always helps him calm down.” He shrugs again. “M’not as good as I used to be cos I haven’t spoken it daily in years. But I can get by.”

            Liam stops asking questions after that—he has too many images crowding his mind at the moment.

             They get back to the car, where Louis and Michael and Lauren are already waiting.

            “How’d it go? He looks a little shell-shocked,” Louis comments.

            “I guess we’ll see,” Zayn says dryly. “You lot mind waiting for another, like, half hour? I wanna go visit mum and the girls.”

            “Sure thing, bro. Just remember we’re on a schedule, yeah?”

            “Yeah. It won’t take me long. Watch him for me.”

            He gives Liam a little shove in the direction of the others, and sets off again.

            “I thought Zayn’s mum and sisters were killed,” Liam says as they all watch him leave.

            “They’re buried here,” Louis says. “He’s going to visit their graves.”

            And Liam, faced with even more casualties of the war he didn’t even know existed, has to turn away, blinking hard like the sun that doesn’t shine here is hurting his eyes.

***

            The ride home is more somber than the ride there had been; the rebels talk statistics and accounting while Liam says quiet. He can’t stop seeing the charred home, the graves, the bullet marks, the hollow gazes of people who have lost everything. He can’t stop thinking about how thin Ahad had been, how he hadn’t been able to afford a wheelchair but still hadn’t wanted Zayn to help him out.

            The world is ugly, ugly, ugly, and Liam carries a good portion of the guilt when it comes to making it that way. He never wanted to look into Simon’s constant anger and contempt for the common people, never wanted to assume that his arrogance was something more than a character flaw, never wanted to research the military actions beyond the ones that killed rebels. And now that he’s been convinced that everything he’s been seeing his whole life is a goddamn lie, a terribly obvious cover-up for unspeakable cruelty and hypocrisy, he is complicit in his blindness, and the hot leaden weight of guilt sits on his chest like a burning brand. He should have seen this, and he should have stopped it. There is no excuse for the way he’s been ignoring what was under his nose.

            He doesn’t know if what the rebellion’s doing is right, but he knows someone has to help these people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn liam, back at it again with the moral struggle! what do you guys think he's gonna do?? 
> 
> okay, so that formatting thing i promised i would talk about next chapter. I've decided against splitting this up in any way or doing a hiatus, because i've decided to speed up the first half quite a bit so that the whole thing won't be so slow burn. i'm sure you guys are thrilled about that lol--i know i tend to be the world's slowest burn writer. so basically all you need to know is that i'm gonna write this all the way through with no breaks, and that i've decided to speed up the pace of this thing a bit. 
> 
> that's all for this week! follow me on [tumblr](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com), reblog the [fic post](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com/post/138359894039/viva-la-vida-by-iambluehead-pairing-zaynliam), and/or leave comments and kudos to keep this writer healthy and thriving! many many thanks to everyone who did that last week, i love you guys!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for posting this so late, you guys! I was out of town these past couple of days, and i ended up having to drive home this evening right after i finished writing the chapter. so yeah. now i'm sitting on my bathroom floor in my underwear posting a fanfic at 12:45 AM. I guess this is just my life now. 
> 
> This chapter kinda stressed me tf out because it's a transition chapter into the next plot section, so I hope you have more fun reading it than i had writing it lmao.

“How’d it go, then?” Harry’s not looking at him, and it makes Liam feel a bit odd. Harry has never not been able to look him in the eyes.

            “It’s bad,” Liam says softly. “People are dying.”

            “Because of the rebellion, right?” Harry demands, and it doesn’t sound like a question. “Because they started this war, and that created all these problems, and now—it’s their fault, Liam, isn’t it?”

            After what he’s seen today, Harry’s insistence strikes Liam as childish. “I don’t know whose fault it is, Harry. I just know that it has to be stopped.”

            “So you’re saying that it could be the crown’s fault? Is that what you’re saying?” Harry finally turns to face him, and his eyes are red. He looks like Liam has stabbed him in the back. “That sounds like treason, Liam.”

            Liam blinks. “So what, I’m committing treason against myself? That doesn’t seem like such a terrible crime, t’be honest.”

            “Against your uncle, Liam!” Harry shouts, his fists clenching. “They take you out of this place once and suddenly you’re seeing things from their point of view? What the hell’s up with that?”

            “You’re the one that said that we could be them, if things were a little different, Harry. So what the hell’s up with that? That we’d be allowed to be angry if we were in their position, but they’re not allowed to be angry when they’re in it? It’s only an outrage if it’s happening to us? I’m not saying I want to throw my uncle off the throne, for Christ’s sake. But if people have no homes and no money and no hope, something’s wrong.”

            “You don’t fucking get it, Liam!” The look on Harry’s face has turned ugly and he’s shaking. “You don’t just get to change your mind like that! There’s a system, and we’re a part of it, and do you really think that if it gets changed, we’ll live through it? Ever learned about the French Revolution? None of the royals or aristocracy lived. You’re throwing us all under the guillotine when you say you want things to change. The minute things change, we’re all dead.”

            Liam stares at him, and, like it’s the first time he’s looking at Harry, sees a deep, visceral fear that they truly won’t live through this. Liam himself has never doubted that they’ll get home ever since they arrived at base. He just assumed it would happen, that his uncle would move mountains and kingdoms to get him home. “Harry—”

            “Don’t fucking talk to me,” Harry says, turning away again abruptly, his voice choked. “If you want us all to get killed by the Circle, that’s on you.”

            “Harry—things are gonna change, they’re gonna settle down, we’re going to work this out—”

            “ _You still don’t get it_. There is no happy ending here. People are going to end up dead, and it’s going to be ugly and bloody and terrible no matter what. There’s no one that can fix this, if it’s as bad as you say.”

            Liam can feel a kind of hopelessness seeping out of Harry into himself, because what the other man says is true: there is no easy solution to this. Either the common people will keep living in misery and fear, or the courts of England will become slaughter houses.

            There is no turning it off. There is no getting out.

***

            When dinner is brought into his cell, Liam doesn’t have much of an appetite. There are so many things that are weighing far too heavily on his mind for him to be able to eat much. Plus, it’s Niall that brings the food in, which sort of kills his desire to eat—the duke’s betrayal still stings, even if he can understand it a little better now.

            “I heard you saw some things today,” Niall says softly right before he closes the door.

            Liam looks up. Niall’s face has an odd expression—somewhere between pity and curiosity. “I suppose I did.”

            “And?”

            “It doesn’t make it okay, or the right thing, but—I think I know why you did what you did.”

            “Well,” Niall says, “no one knows that. But I’m glad y’understand a bit. Something has to be done.”

            “And kidnapping us is it?”

            Niall shrugs. “It gives us some leverage, I suppose. But I’m not in it for that.”

            “What are you in it for, then?”

            Niall just smiles. “You’ll find out soon enough, I’d reckon. Once Azoff gets here things will really start movin’ fast. I’ll see you soon, Liam.”

            “Wait—Niall—when’s Azoff coming?”

            The Irish man shrugs again, already closing the door. “Dunno. As soon as he can, I reckon. I’ll see you then.”

            He shuts the door and Liam immediately begins pacing the short length of his cell, resisting the urge to punch something. He just wants to understand—more than anything, he wants to fix this—but all he’s getting, quite literally, are locked doors. And with Harry angry at him, he’s lost his only ally in this whole thing.

            He’d never thought that he could be more alone, but the world just keeps on surprising him.

            “Okay,” he says aloud finally, because apparently he’s been demoted to ‘crazy prisoner who talks to himself’ status now. “Okay, let’s figure this out. There’s nothing that can’t be fixed, yeah? I can do this. Let’s see what I know for sure.” He pauses, trying to collect his thoughts. “Simon is my uncle. He’s the king. Right now, under his rule, terrible things are happening to the common people. I don’t know if that’s entirely his fault or not. But he must have something to do with it, because he’s the king, so like—okay. So how do I fix that?”

            “Glad to see you’re taking on the reparation of an entire country by yourself,” a voice behind him says wryly. “I always did like a man with ambition.”

            Liam feels himself turning a brighter red than he’s ever been in his life, and slowly turns around to see Zayn lounging in his doorway, three books tucked under his arm. “I . . . did not hear you come in.”

            “I figured.” Zayn steps in and closes the door behind him. “Talking to yourself is a sign of madness, Your Highness.”

            “You don’t need to tell me I’ve become a cliché, I already know.”

            Zayn snorts and sets down the books on the table next to the food. “These are for you. Louis said you liked the other ones I brought you. S’the next two Game of Thrones books and The Martian. I reckon you can read them while you’re planning world domination, or whatever it is I walked in on.”

            “I wasn’t planning world domination,” Liam mutters. “Was just trying to fix the shit that’s happened.”

            “And how’s that going for you?”

            “Pretty bloody bad,” Liam admits, and sits down at the table in front of the food. “I’ve got no idea what to do.”

            “You’re not the only one, Your Highness. We’re all fuckin’ lost.”

            “Yeah, I know.” He wants to say more, wants to say but _I’m the one with the responsibility to fix it, because I’m the one that helped cause it in the first place_ , but he doesn’t because as much as Zayn has proved himself to be a halfway decent person, Liam doesn’t trust him enough to be vulnerable around him. And the guilt that comes with the end of his innocence has made him very vulnerable indeed.

            “Listen,” Zayn says after a moment, “finish up eating, and then we’re going for a walk, okay?”

            “I’ve had it with walks for today,” Liam says. “I’ll stay in the nice safe ignorance of my cell, thanks.”

            Zayn rolls his eyes. “No horror show this time, Your Highness. I just want to go get a breath of fresh air; s’nice out.” He walks towards the door. “I’ll be back in half an hour; you’re going whether you like it or not.”

            “Make me,” Liam shouts after him, and Zayn shoots him a last grin.

            “Don’t make me bring out the big guns, Your Highness,” he says with a wink and shuts the door.

            Liam allows himself a moment to turn and stare into the security camera that watches him from the corner like he’s in The Office, and then beings eating, his mind still whirling.

            Would it really be possible for the rebels to resolve the whole thing by using Liam to make Simon give up the throne? As much as he hates the idea of being a hostage until Simon agrees to abdicate, he has a feeling that’s where this whole thing is going. Not that it’s bad plan, mind, because he can definitely see the sense in it, but he’s worried about Simon abdicating—what would that make his uncle? A criminal? A noble? A scapegoat? Hell, what would that make Liam? He has a feeling, just as strong as the first, that Harry’s right, and the rebels won’t show much mercy when it comes to punishing the people who—knowingly or not—made their lives miserable for so long.

            Even granting Simon does step down and everything turns out fine, who would replace him? This bloke Azoff that seems to be the leader of the non-Circle rebels, so he could probably take the throne without too many of the common people protesting, but the nobles would never be okay with a commoner being the king. Never in a million years—he’s fairly sure he knows a few people who would rather fight the rebels to the death than let that happen. Plus, what sort of ruling experience does Azoff have? How would anyone know he could be any better than Simon?

            It’s not like Simon is the whole problem, either; there are thousands of nobles and military officers who are carrying out the oppression that Simon is implementing, and how the hell could they all be replaced without protest and bloodshed? Liam can’t imagine any of his uncle’s advisors quietly stepping down and letting someone like Louis saunter into their spot on the king’s council.

            The problem is huge and messy and frightening, and Liam has literally no idea how to work through it. He’s been able to influence what’s going on around him almost his whole life, and now he’s utterly overwhelmed and helpless. He can’t even make his own best friend stay on his side.

            Liam doesn’t realize how much time has passed until the door of his cell opens again and Zayn walks back in.

            “Ready for recess?” he asks without ceremony. “I asked someone, and they say you don’t even have to cuffed, so we’re about to get lit here.”

            “I don’t know if—”

            “We’re going.” Zayn drags Liam by the arm to the door, and it’s not until they’re already halfway down the hallway that Liam realizes that it doesn’t feel like Zayn is forcing Liam to do this because he’s the captor and Liam is the prisoner. It feels like Liam is the reluctant friend being dragged out for a good time—it’s totally amicable, and despite Zayn’s use of force, Liam doesn’t feel threatened.

            He wishes he could stop analyzing his own feelings so damn much.

            “So what’s the point of this again? It’s already dark out, for God’s sake.”

            “You’re still shaken up from earlier today, so we’re going for a walk. Exercise is excellent for cheering yourself up.”

            “You shouldn’t care,” Liam says flatly. “You aren’t supposed to care about me.”

            Zayn sends him an unimpressed glance. “And you aren’t supposed to care what language I speak to calm down Ahad. But you asked anyway. So I guess we’re both pretty bad at playing our roles. Now quit being so dramatic and just walk.”

            “I’m the prince here,” Liam mumbles, “stop giving me orders.”

            Zayn laughs, and Liam realizes that he’d just made a joke for the rebel’s benefit. He feels like he hasn’t made a joke in a long time.

            They make a few more turns, walk up a flight of stairs, and then emerge into the rapidly fading twilight. It’s a bit chilly now, and Liam draws his arms around himself, wishing for a jacket. But despite the cold, it’s undeniably nice to be outside in a place that’s not riddled with ash and death—aside from the trip today, he hasn’t been outside in a while.

            “Okay,” Zayn says, “like, you can’t see many of them right now, but this is a bloody fantastic star gazing spot. I think you can see Venus already—maybe a couple stars, yeah—”

            “An outer space buff _and_ a Game of Thrones fan?” Liam asks. “Wouldn’t have guessed that the best soldier of a serious political revolution would also be a massive nerd.”

            Zayn pulls a face. “’Ey, this is interesting stuff.” When Liam just whispers _nerd_ under his breath, he sighs. “This is going to be like when Louis found my collection of Bollywood music, innit. He wouldn’t stop roasting me for months.”

             “You’re a superhero fan, too. And you like Tolkien. No one _likes_ reading Tolkien. Oh my God, you’re the biggest geek ever.”

            “Tolkien’s writing is wicked, fuck you,” Zayn says. “And I know for a fact you liked The Hobbit, so look who’s talking. Now shut up and look over there at Venus. It’s gonna get close to El Nath real soon, so it’ll almost be a part of Taurus. And if you look right above El Nath, you can see Capella, which is a part of Taurus, but also Auriga, the charioteer constellation who carries goats.”

            “Why does he carry goats?” Liam interrupts. “That’s _goat_ to be inconvenient.”

             Zayn stares at him for so long Liam thinks he might have frozen. “I hate you so much I swear to God—”          

            “It was funny, come on—”

            “I hate you so much— _fucking goat puns_ —”

            “You left yourself wide open for that one, admit it.”

            “I can’t believe you.”

            “It was funny.”

            “It was awful, and I hated it.”

            “I would have never guessed—”

            The door behind them is flung open and someone comes running out—it’s hard to tell in the dim light, but Liam thinks it’s Perrie—and seizes Zayn by the arm.

            “Zayn, they need you down in exit one, there’s a mission leaving right now—it’s an emergency, I dunno what happened but it was bad, you gotta get down there—”

And just like that, stargazing, Tolkien-loving, pun-hating Zayn is gone and there’s a single-minded soldier in his place, a man who’s already thinking ahead to where he needs to be, wondering what horror has happened now. He turns away from Liam, eyes narrowing in focus and a hand straying under his jacket to where Liam knows a gun is concealed.

“Escort His Highness back to his cell,” is all he says. “Phone someone and tell them I’m on my way; I just need to grab a few things first.”

“Be safe,” Perrie says quietly. “If you come back hurt I’ll fuck up your face again myself.” She turns to Liam. “Your Highness, if you’ll just follow me.”

The last thing Liam sees of Zayn is his silhouette against the darkening sky, a gun in his hand but his head tilted back for one last glimpse of the stars.

***

            “What do you mean, he left again?” Louis barks. “He told me they gave him time off! He said he was on break!”

            Liam shrugs helplessly; in the corner, Harry is silent and watchful, probably because he’s still resentful of Liam from yesterday. “I’m sorry, Louis. They said it was an emergency and he ran off. Perrie probably knows more than I do.”

            “Perrie got sent out this morning,” Louis grumbles. “I’ll kill that motherfucker myself when he gets back. He should have at least texted, for fuck’s sake.”

            “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Liam says. It feels odd to be comforting Louis like this, but not as odd as it should. Maybe it’s because he knows what Zayn’s up against now, knows what Louis is afraid of.

            Louis just nods before turning to Harry. “You’re staying in here for now, yeah? Something weird is going on, and I don’t like it. I’d rather have the two of you in one place; it’ll be safer to have a tight guard on one room than a loose one on two.”

            Harry nods, his lips pressed together tightly.

            “You look like a frog when you do that,” Louis informs him. “Anyways. I’m going out to see what I can find out about what happened last night. Try not to kill each other or anything, because I’m definitely sensing some frost in the air.”

            He twirls over to the door—irrepressible even in his anger and worry—and with a last “Tootles, royals,” shuts it behind him, leaving Harry and Liam alone in the dead air that lays between them.

            “You actually care about them,” Harry says eventually.

            “Sorry?”

            “You actually care. Like, you want Zayn to get back safe, and you don’t want Louis to worry. That’s kind of fucked up, given that they don’t care about you.”

            “Maybe not,” Liam says after a pause. “But they care about each other, and that should be reason enough to hope they never have to lose each other.” He shrugs. “My job is caring about people, Harry. That’s what a good king should do: care. And I think that people who are broken and angry and desperate should be cared about just as much as everyone else. So yeah, I guess I kind of do hope things turn out okay for them.”

            When Harry doesn’t say anything in reply, Liam adds, “I look at them, and I see us, Harry. And I know how fucked up I would be if I ever lost you. And I don’t want something like that to happen to anyone else, either.”

            The silence between them solidifies like an ice cube. Harry stares at him for a very long time, and then says, “You’ve always been able to love without fear, Liam. I wish I could be more like you.”

            And then, quietly, like he’s hoping Liam won’t notice, he turns away and begins to cry.

***

            The thing is, Harry is one of the bravest people Liam knows. He’s never seen someone with so much love and perseverance in their body; he sometimes thinks that his friend must be made of actual sunshine to be as perpetually bright as he is. But this whole ordeal has revealed another side of Harry that is very, very afraid. And Liam knows how what fear can do to a person—hell, Liam himself blocked out a solid few weeks of his life after his family died because of fear and grief.

            It feels like there are suddenly so many broken things in this world that he cannot fix.

            Harry is currently lying next to him in bed, breathing so quietly that Liam is sure he’s not sleeping. That’s one thing that can be said—they’re fighting right now, sure, but they can still sleep next to each other without an ounce of discomfort. It’s a mark of their closeness as much as the inevitability of their eventual reconciliation, in Liam’s eyes.

            “We’re gonna be okay,” he says aloud into the darkness, and Harry shifts a little beside him. “You know that, yeah? We just have to wait it out.”

            “No one is on our side,” Harry says, voice muffled a little.

            “We’re on our side,” Liam says firmly. “That’s all we need.”

            “Us against the world,” Harry laughs softly. “Isn’t that a Katy Perry lyric?”

            “You know me, always aspiring to new levels of cheesiness.” He’s heartened by the fact that he got Harry to laugh. “M’serious, though, Haz. We’re going to make it.”

            “Promise?” Harry’s voice is forlorn, almost childish in the darkness, in its desperation.

            “I promise,” Liam says, and reflects that this is his second time in the past twenty four hours that he’s making promises he won’t be able to keep.

***

            “Thanks for taking us out.” Harry is apparently feeling a little more civil now that it’s morning, because he’s looking Louis in the eyes and even smiling a little. Or maybe this is just how he always is around Louis now; after all, Liam hasn’t seen them interact much due to the separate cell policy enforced until now. Maybe Harry and Louis have the same sort of cautious treaty that Liam has with Zayn, the almost-friendship that teeters in between sympathy and resentment.

            “That’s my job, innit.” Louis, on the other hand, seems to definitely seem to be on the side of resentment today. Liam’s pegging it as an effect of Zayn’s unexpected departure the night before.

            “He’ll be back soon,” Harry says quietly. Great minds think alike, apparently.

            “Stop fucking saying that.”   

            Yup, definitely a day for resentment.

            “I’m just trying to help.”

            “Well, stop trying.”

            Liam tries to send a significant look in Harry’s direction, but the other man has never been very good at knowing when to stop talking, and this is no exception. Harry continues chattering away, maybe trying to compensate for his bad mood yesterday—Liam’s guessing he feels bad about claiming that Louis and Zayn’s plight matters less than his own and Liam’s.

            Liam keeps excepting Louis to snap, but he just endures Harry’s well-meaning blindness with a stony face and a set jaw. Liam can’t say he’s surprised; he’s fairly sure the rebel has the tiniest bit of a soft spot for Harry. After all, you don’t just consistently call someone “pretty boy” if you don’t like them at least a little. It’s hard to tell with Louis, though—maybe he actually does hate Harry. It’s hard to hate Harry, but—

            Fuck, he needs to just stop thinking. All this is making him go fucking crazy. He wishes they weren’t playing the waiting game yet again—something needs to happen, soon, or Liam thinks he’s going to burst. He’s always been a proactive person, not a reactive one. He needs to be doing things, not waiting on other people to do them.

            “Louis!” It’s Niall, surprisingly, who intercepts them on the way back to the cell. Liam had thought he’d be back in court by now, but apparently not.

            “What?” Louis looks like he’s just about ready to punch Niall if it’s not something pressing.

            “Zayn’s already back; he’s safe and everythin’, said the mission went fine. He’s waiting back in the cell for you and those two.”

            “For them?”

            Niall shrugs. “It’s somethin’ important, I think, mate. Better hurry.”

            They practically run the last few hallways to the cell, Louis vowing to rip Zayn limb from limb for leaving so suddenly. The minute he flings open the door to Harry and Liam’s cell, however, Zayn is standing there holding up both hands in defense.

            “Listen, I know you literally want to kill me right now, Tommo, but I need to run them down the office right now. You can beat me to a pulp when we get back.”

            “You’re not going anywhere until I’ve chewed you out for leaving without even shootin’ me a fucking text,” Louis says stubbornly, but Liam can see him relaxing in Zayn’s presence already.

            Zayn sighs deeply and walks over to stand in front of them, clasping his hands behind his back and tilting his head back to proffer Louis his jaw. “All right, give me a good one, then.”

            Louis narrows his eyes and then swings his fist up at Zayn’s already bruised face at top speed. But Zayn doesn’t even flinch, and Louis slows down at the last moment to just tap his knuckles against Zayn’s jaw very gently in a fond admonishment.

            “I’m glad you’re safe, mate,” he murmurs, clapping Zayn on the shoulder and then stepping back. “Why d’you need these two, again?”

            Zayn’s eyebrows shoot up, and his gaze darts to Harry and Liam. “Niall didn’t tell you? Azoff is back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's hear it for cliffhangers!! next chapter is gonna be SO LIT i'm excited. Speaking of next chapter.....the update next week is gonna have wack timing. It's either gonna be on Friday night, or it's gonna be like half a week late (like thursday??). Having it be so late would suck for everyone including me, and throw off the whole schedule, so I'll try and get it done and post by Friday. keep your fingers crossed for me lol. If you wanna stay updated on when it'll be posted, though, i'll be keeping yall informed on that on my [tumblr](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com), because who knows what next week is gonna look like for me rip. 
> 
> I think that's all i wanted to talk about?? i know i haven't answered your comments from last week--sorry about that, I'll be doing it tomorrow probably, but every single one was still deeply appreciated and reread a billion times and i love you all. my life is just a mess right now. okay, i think that's it for real. have a good easter if you celebrate it! i will hopefully see you all on Friday.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys I got this early upload done in time!!!! I'm a motherfuckin princeness omg I'm proud of me. In case you were wondering why I'm posting this tonight instead of tomorrow, I'm leaving for NYC tomorrow at the crack of dawn (literally...like 3 AM) and so I won't have my laptop with me until Thursday....meaning that if I didn't upload today everyone would have to wait until then at least and then everything would be thrown off schedule and everyone would be unhappy and it would be bad. So i just figured i'd upload it today. 
> 
> a ton of things happen in this chapter!! i loved writing this one, it's probably one of my faves so far, so tell me what you think!!!

            Liam hesitates, suddenly over analyzing Zayn’s every move, suddenly wondering what the hell could be behind that door. Zayn raises an eyebrow at him.

            “Any time now.”

            He takes a deep breath, terrible aware of the fact that everything could be different from this moment on—that he could go home and never come back here, that he could die, that anything could happen—and walks through the door. He does not look back at Zayn or Harry who walk behind him, because in front of him is the man who decided to take a country apart at its already ripping seams.

            Azoff.

            Liam doesn’t remember what he’d looked like all those years ago when he’d broken into the palace with Zayn’s dad, but the man before him is a far call from the image he’d built around the voice from his dreams. He’s old—much older than Liam had expected—and tired looking, with smile lines around his eyes and large calloused hands he keeps folded neatly on the table in front of him. He’s hardly the sort of man you’d expect to incite political uproar in an age-old monarchy—he looks more like a well-groomed grandpa—but there’s something hard and almost cruel around his mouth when Liam looks closer than tells him this is not a man to be trifled with.

            Liam is broken out of his inspection by the sound of the door slamming behind him; he glances back to see Zayn taking a seat at the round, company-meeting style table Azoff is sitting at, and Harry following his example. Liam slowly does the same, resting his forearms on the table in mimicry of Azoff’s position.

            “Your Highness. What a pleasure to meet again.”

            “The pleasure’s all yours, I’m sure,” Liam says dryly. Azoff wants to play this game court-style, apparently. Well, if he thinks he has more passive-aggressive comebacks, ill-intentioned compliments, and subtle threats in him than Liam does, he’s sorely mistaken. Liam’s been playing this game since birth.

            “We shall see about that,” Azoff says calmly. “I trust you’ve been comfortable staying with us? I expressly gave orders for you to be treated gently.”

            “I’ve been treated acceptably, I’d say,” Liam says, leaning back in his seat, stance open and arrogant. “Some have been kinder than others. But my treatment here isn’t what we came to talk about, is it?”

            “Well, we shall see about that,” Azoff repeats. “I think your treatment here is very relevant indeed. But what would you like to discuss, then, Your Highness, if not our hospitality?”

            “Why’s His Grace here?” Liam asks bluntly. It wasn’t what he’d meant to start off with, but it’s as relevant a question as any. “I doubt you needed him for more leverage after you already had me.”

            “Do you mean why he is in this meeting, or why we took him in the first place?”

            Question for a question. Liam can play this game just fine. “I think you know.”

            Azoff inclines his head. “I owe Duke Styles’ charming mother a favor. She was once very kind to my family, and I needed to repay her.”

            “You have a funny notion of repayment,” Liam says coldly, “if you consider stealing a woman’s only son from her a favor.”

            “You don’t understand. That’s to be expected; I hardly expect you to be up to date on current events while you’re in a glorified prison—”

            “—trust me, it’s not that glorified—”

            “—but we are almost at London.” Azoff studies Liam for a reaction. “Most of the nobles are leaving the capital for the summer in a few months. When that happens, the rebels will take the city, and it will not be pretty. I wanted to spare Duchess Styles the risk of having her son slaughtered in the coup. So yes, we took him as well as you.” He shrugs expressively. “Say of me what you will, Liam, but I’m a man who pays his debts. What greater favor can you grant than life itself? The lady will be overjoyed to have her son in one piece after this summer.”

            “So your notion of reform is to kill anyone with a title? That hardly seems like a humane notion. I hope you don’t expect me to be grateful that you claim to have spared us.”

            “That is not my notion, no,” Azoff says, unruffled. “I hope to avoid bloodshed at all costs. But you can’t always get what you want, and so I’d rather protect His Grace in case violence ensues.”

            “That is royally fucked up, pardon my French and pun fully intended,” Harry says into the silence that follows this statement. “I can’t decide if I’m more offended or horrified. For later reference, I’d much rather you leave me to save my own skin rather than take me on a month long, traumatic kidnapping journey in the name of saving me. Just a heads up for next time.”

            Liam has never been so proud of him.

            Azoff, on the other hand, just regards him silently for a moment with an inclined head, and then says, “Anyway, none of this is what I wanted to discuss with you today, Your Highness.”

            “Then please, let’s get to the point.”

            “As you wish.” The older man leans forward, eyes intent on Liam’s. “You are aware, of course, of the transgressions against the nation as a whole that your uncle has committed, yes?”

            “I’ve seen a few things,” Liam says tersely.

            “Very well. We obviously need to get him off the throne, as I’m sure you realize. However, even though we have the support of the commoners, we may have some trouble getting the nobles to support a change of power at the royal level. That creates a lot of problems—the nobles hold a great deal of power and money, and they could feasibly do a lot of damage to the new ruler.”

            “Who will that be?”

            “I’m sorry?”

            “Who are you imagining as the new ruler when you describe this?”

            Azoff blinks. “Someone from the ranks of the rebels, naturally. Myself, perhaps—” He breaks off when Liam raises an eyebrow and allows himself a hard smirk. “In any case—we need the support of the nobles.”

            “Are you about to ask him to support you over his uncle?” Harry asks incredulously.

            Azoff shoots him a cold look. “I’m not about to ask. If you two don’t want a bullet through your heads, you’re going to be backing me as king when we move into London this summer.”

            “What about going home?” Liam demands. “I thought we were hostages, to get His Majesty to step down without further violence.”

            “If you think Simon Cowell is about to give up power for his nephew and a single duke, you are sorely mistaken. That is never going to happen. We just need you to spit out the lines we feed you come summer, and then we’ll ship you off to America, perhaps, once everything has settled down.”

            “You want us to be your puppets?” Liam asks, his voice shaking. “You’re thinking that we’ll just agree to back you, just—just like that? You think you can threaten us into being your lapdogs?”

            “I know I can,” Azoff says frankly. “The threat of death is much more persuasive than you’d think.”

            “Wait,” Harry says, his voice no longer defiant. “You mean we’re not going home? You—you want us to stay here? I’m—” He breaks off, fingers curling into fists like he’s trying desperately to hold onto the fragments of their old life. He’s fragile-looking, a broken angel with lifeless emerald eyes finding out he’s banished to earth for the rest of eternity.

            “Look at it this way,” Azoff says, “we’re bringing over to the right side of history. You won’t be reviled like your parents and uncle.”

            Liam can hardly see straight anymore; he’s shaking so badly that everything looks blurry, or maybe those are tears—he can’t believe they’ve been played like this—he can’t believe they were naïve enough to think they were ever going to make it out of this alive without selling their souls—there’s a price, that’s what he’s learned from all this, there’s always a price and now they have to pay up—

            He’s hardly aware of Zayn pulling him to his feet and ushering him out the door, his head is ringing like he’s been hit—they’re going home again, he’s never going to see the only person left alive in his family again, they’re going to be chained to a lie, to the man who ruined his life, to the rebellion forever.

            “Take the Duke,” Zayn says quietly, shoving Harry off at someone. “I’ll take him.”

            Liam stumbles down the hallway in front of him without a word, still reeling. He’s hyperaware of everything that’s going on—the way his hands are shaking, the terrible hot rage in his chest, the hand Zayn has on his lower back to guide him.

            “Your Highness,” Zayn says when they’ve gotten away from the office, “are you—”        

            “You said we’d be able to go home,” Liam spits out, rounding on him viciously. “You said we’d get back all right—you—we’re never going home, do you realize that? Why the fuck did you say we were?”

            “I didn’t know,” Zayn says warily, watching Liam like he’s a wild animal. “I honestly thought you were hostages—I thought we’d be doing a deal—listen, I wouldn’t have agreed to the whole mission in the first place if I thought it’d be like this, this is just fucked up, innit—”

            Liam effectively cuts him off by slamming his fist into Zayn’s face as hard as he can. Zayn freezes, as taken by surprise as Liam is, but swiftly recovers and pulls back before he can land another blow. There’s blood dripping from his nose and Liam’s knuckles, but all he does is raise an eyebrow matter of factedly and ask, “Do you feel better now, or am I going to have to cuff you until we get back to the cell?”

            “I dare you,” Liam snarls, “go on and tie me up—I’ll be fucking chained down for the rest of my life anyway, apparently. May as well start now, yeah?”

            “Stop being so dramatic,” Zayn says, wiping blood from his upper lip with the back of his hand and inspecting the scarlet smear with clinical interest. “Let’s get back to the cell and talk about your options. What Azoff say isn’t final, you dickhead, we’ve still got some negotiating power.”

            “We?” Liam can feel a hysterical laugh building up inside him. “ _We_? This isn’t _we_ , Zayn, this isn’t your problem, I—”

            “Zayn!”

            They both stop talking and turn; Michael is standing at the end of the hallway, eyes narrowed and a hand tucked under his jacket.

            “What is it?” Zayn’s voice is tight.

            “You okay, mate? Nothing going on?”

            “Nothing going on.”

            “What happened to your face?” Michael’s eyes travel from Zayn’s bloody nose to Liam’s bloody fist, and something clicks behind his eyes. “You fucking bastard,” he says to Liam. “What the hell was that for?”

            “Maybe for the fact that you’re trying to fucking kill everyone I love and make me look like I agree with you,” Liam says, fists clenching, fingers sticking together with blood.

            “It’s a little rich of you to be complaining about the people you love dying when you’re standing here with the deaths of both of our families on your head!” Michael shouts. “You fucking—” And then his hand comes out from underneath his jacket, and it’s holding a gun, and Liam’s entire world shrinks to the size of that pinpoint of black that’s trained on him.

            “Michael, what the hell,” Zayn says wearily. “C’mon, mate, put it away. You’re acting like a fuckin’ Circle member.”

            “Maybe they’ve got the right idea,” Michael says, a terrible, vicious eagerness in his voice that seems to split him open before Liam’s eyes and reveal a hungry void. “Maybe this privileged piece of shit doesn’t deserve the air we waste on him.”

            “Maybe you should put that gun back in your coat before I have to take it away from you,” Zayn counters, but there’s a wariness in his stance that wasn’t there before. “Don’t tell me you’re with them, now, mate—you’re a good kid, I don’t wanna see you getting mixed up with the wrong crowd.”

            “Shut up. You don’t know what I should or shouldn’t do.”

            “I know you’re angry, I know it hurts—but Jesus fuckin’ Christ, killing people isn’t going to bring your brothers back. Give me the gun and we’ll forget about this.”

            “I said,” Michael says slowly, turning to face Zayn with an intent expression, “shut _up_.”

            He pulls the trigger on the gun to punctuate his last word, and Zayn staggers backwards, clapping his hand to his shoulder as shock flits across his face. “Michael, man, what the fuck—”

            “Now you,” Michael says, turning back to Liam. “I bet you’ve never felt what it’s like to see the people you love most in the world die inch by inch in front of your eyes, have you?”

            “I mean,” Liam begins, but breaks off as the gun is waved in his face.

            “That was a rhetorical question. You have no idea what I’ve been through. _You have no idea_.” Michael leans in closer, the still-smoking mouth of the gun pressed to Liam’s pulse point. He imagines the sickening spray of blood that will erupt from his neck if Michael pulls the trigger right now, thinks about feeling his heart beat his life away through the tear in his skin. “You have no idea what it’s like to suffer, Liam Payne. No fucking idea at all.”

            And then Michael is wrenched off from Liam and is abruptly replaced by Zayn, who looks more annoyed than anything.

            “Your Highness, get out of here,” he says briskly, “go back to the cell; Harry and Louis’ll be waiting. Go.” He pauses, looking at Liam’s expression. “If you’re smart you won’t try to run. If you do that I won’t be there to protect you when this happens again.”

            “I don’t need protecting,” Liam snarls, fully aware of how childish it sounds—but then Michael is tackling Zayn again, and there’s a brief scuffle where the gun goes off once and then twice, and then—

            Zayn straightens up and steps back, dusting off his bloodstained shirt in a motion that looks a little too affected to be totally painless. Michael is laying limply on the ground, a bruise already blossoming on his jaw and blood smeared over a cut on his forehead.

            “Your Highness—oh my god.”

            “What?” Liam asks, frowning, but Zayn doesn’t reply, just stares at him. “ _What_?” He follows Zayn’s gaze down to his torso, and—

            Oh God.

            His shirt is so sodden in red that he looks like a living thing, warm and wet and sentient with blood when he brings his hands up to touch the rapidly spreading stain on his stomach. As if it’d been waiting until he noticed the blood, pain begins to burn on the edges of the wound like he’s been branded.

            “It’s honestly not that bad,” Zayn says quickly as Liam look sup in mute panic. “Listen—no, just breathe, listen to me—”

            But a warm, soft darkness is already swallowing him up; his head spins, and he staggers, clutching the wall for support. “Zayn—”

            “You’re fine—Liam, listen to me. You’re fine. I’m gonna get you help, okay? Just calm down and take a deep breath.”

            “Hurts—to breath—”

            “We need some help over here!” Zayn shouts over his shoulder; Liam slips another inch down the wall, knowing that no one is going to want to help him, the nephew of the man who killed everyone’s family and friends. “’Ey, bring me some medical help over here!”

            “Don’t bother . . .” Liam manages before he falls, and the last thing he sees is Zayn rushing forward to catch him.

***

 

            When he opens his eyes, Liam is staring at the ceiling of an unfamiliar room, lying in an unfamiliar bed. For a moment, he experiences a nerve-singeing panic attack, and then his vision slides further into focus and lands on Zayn, who’s sitting in the corner with his arm in a sling and his nose in a book. Unexplainably, the sight calms him down—a fact that would have normally bothered him, but at the moment is overshadowed by the burning wave of pain that briefly engulfs his stomach when he tries to sit up.

            When the pain passes, he’s wise enough not to try that again, and instead just says, “What happened?”

            Zayn looks up, giving him a brief once over. There’s still dried blood smeared under his nose. “Oh, you’re awake. That was quick. Don’t you remember what happened?”

            “I—I mean, I remember, but how did I get here? Where are we?”

            “I brought you here; it’s our hospital. You’ve gotten stitched up ‘n’ everything, you should be fine in a few weeks. The wound wasn’t bad.”

            Liam draws in a deep breath and looks back up at the ceiling. There’s a crack in the cement like the earth is trying to push its way back into the room. “Where’s Harry?”

            “Back in the cell. He’s fine; Louis got him back safe. He’s worried about you.”

            “Why are you in here, and he isn’t?”

            Zayn raises an eyebrow. “Because apparently you still need a guard when you’re unconscious. I tried to get him in here; they wouldn’t let me.”

            Liam takes another deep breath, choking down a wave of sudden nausea that churns in his stomach. “You saved my life.”

            Zayn’s eyebrows steadily climb further up his forehead. “For, like, the third time now, yes.”

            There’s a short silence.

            “I’m sorry I punched you,” Liam blurts out suddenly. “I did do that, didn’t I?”

            Zayn shrugs and makes a gesture of concession. “I think I owed you at least one good punch. I did kind of kidnap you and everything; I had it coming.”

            “Is that your way of saying ‘sorry for ruining your life’?” Liam asks, a smile teasing around his lips despite the pain in his stomach.

            “Don’t be so dramatic,” Zayn says, “I definitely didn’t ruin your life. You have a lot of great things ahead of you, Your Highness.”

            Liam swallows, his throat suddenly dry. “I don’t think I have very many things ahead of me, great or not. At least ninety percent of the people in this country want to kill me. Odds are pretty slim I’ll make it past the end of this year.”

            “Um,” Zayn says, “you have at least one ruggedly handsome protector who’s shown a pretty fantastic commitment to keeping you alive, so that considerably betters your odds.”

            “Really?” Liam says. “Where is this bloke, then?”

            Zayn rolls his eyes, laughing a little. “Come off it. You have a pretty good chance of staying alive if you’ve got me on your side.”

            “You’re not on my side,” Liam reminds him softly.

            Zayn just smiles, that sharp, careless smile that can cut like a knife. “Oh, we’ll see about that.”

***

            “I can’t believe we got screwed over like that,” Harry says softly. Louis and Zayn are talking quietly to each other by the doorway.

            “I can.”

            “We’re going to have to pretend to be okay with everyone we know dying. We’re going to have to let the world believe we support that. I—” Harry sighs and rubs his eyes tiredly. “I don’t understand. Wouldn’t it be a better political move to have a bloodless coup by trading us as hostages?”

            “Actually,” Louis calls from his post by the door, “that would make Azoff look really bad. Kidnapping someone’s kid in the dead of night so he can trade him for power? No one wants a king like that. Much better to make it look like the whole thing was his idea—that way he gets the noble support while keeping the commoners, too.”

            Harry and Liam both send him a glare, and he shrugs. “Only saying the truth, sorry. I don’t like it either, okay? I don’t think it’s right. It feels too much like deceiving the common people, and that’s not what we’re fighting for. We’re fighting for rights and happiness, not for more lies.”

            “But there’s nothing we can do,” Harry says miserably. “Liam’s hurt, so we can’t even make a run for it, and if we just flat out refuse he’ll have us killed. We’ve got our hands tied here.”

            Louis and Zayn exchange a glance.

            “Well—”

            “Niall said he has an idea—”

            “And I dunno if you know, but—”

            “Niall’s an absolute bloody mad genius—”

            “He’s bound to have a way to fix this,” they finish in unison, and grin at each other fleetingly.

            “Seriously, though, he’s not our chief spy for nothing,” Louis adds. “If anyone can think up a way to get you out of doing this, it’s him.”

            “Would he even want to, though?” Liam wonders aloud. “He’s the one who got us brought here in the first place.”

            “Yeah, but—it’s Niall,” Zayn says. “Who knows why he did it? You lot honestly have a lot to learn about him. He’s got his own fuckin’ agenda, and I know for a fact he doesn’t want Azoff on the throne. Trust me, he’ll have a way to get us out of this.”

            “ _Us_ ,” Liam corrects, “not you.”

            Zayn looks annoyed. “The next fucking time you tell me I’m not a part of this mess, I’m going to hit you harder than you hit me. Louis and I are neck-deep in this. We’re risking everything to try and get you out of the plan our leader has for you. Stop acting like you’re on your own, for God’s sake.”

            There’s a long, tense silence, and then it’s broken by Harry absently mindedly humming a few bars of “We’re All in This Together.” Louis, Liam, and Zayn all exchange glances and then try very hard not to look at each other before they burst out laughing.

            Niall doesn’t take too long to arrive; not even fifteen minutes he strides in through the door, looking genuinely happy to see everyone. Liam had forgotten how enthusiastic he is about everything.

            “’Ey, lads,” he says to Louis and Zayn, and then nods at Liam and Harry. “Glad to see you all patched up, mate. I heard Michael got you good.”

            “Not that good,” Zayn jumps in. “He’ll be fine in a few weeks; it was a clean wound.”

            “Where is Michael now, anyway?” Liam asks, frowning when he realizes that no one ever told him about the fate of his attacker.

            Zayn’s face darkens. “Yeah. About that. Azoff decided not to punish him. He left base with the rest of the Circle last night.”

            “They’re gone?” Liam asks at the same time Harry yelps, “He didn’t even get punished?”

            “Yes to both,” Zayn says. “The Circle cleared out last night because their leader got in a fight with Azoff over something. I think it was about you?”

            “About us?”

            Zayn shrugs. “They don’t want to use Azoff’s plan about using your fake support. They think we have a better chance of making it without any royal or noble support at all; they claim it wouldn’t be a true revolution otherwise. So some big fight went down and they left.”

            “I mean,” Louis says, “in a way they’re right, and I’d kind of agree if they also didn’t favor putting you in front of a firing squad on live television.”

            “They want to do that?” Harry asks, looking sick.

            Louis and Zayn both look at Niall, who makes a rueful face. “That’s what my source tells me. They think it’d be an inspiring message for the people or summat.”

            “Jesus fucking Christ,” Harry mumbles. “They really don’t fuck around, do they?”

            “Most certainly not,” Zayn agrees. “Anyway, Michael got off the hook because of the whole ‘dead family’ thing. They claim he had a solid motive—I mean, to me, it’s like, cool motive, still murder. Fuck, _I_ didn’t try to kill anyway after my family kicked the bucket.”

            “Oh, man, that is the biggest fuckin’ lie you ever told,” Louis mutters.

            “Really? Who did I try to kill?”

            “Um,” Louis says, “literally everyone. You tried to fight the entire fucking British army. I literally had to drag away from the army base in Bradford and tell you you’d get farther by joining the rebels.”

            “Okay, well, aside from that—”

            “What about that time in Scotland when you—”

            “— _when are you going to let Scotland go_ —”

            “Because I still have bruises on my arse from it, Zayn! It’s been five years and I _still_ have bruises!”

            “Okay, who’s lying now?”

            “I am not lying, do you want to see my arse as proof?”

            “Been there, done that. Your arse is old news in my book.”

            “Um,” Harry whispers to Niall, “what happened in Scotland?”

            “Fuck if I know, but they argue about it all the time.”

            “ _You guys_ ,” Liam says, projecting into their argument with his best Crown Prince Voice. “I thought you said we had a plan to help out me and Harry?”

            They immediately stop bickering and look guilty.

            “Yeah, we do,” Zayn says, clearing his throat and gesturing to Niall. “Take it away, Horan.”

            “One of these days I’m going to have someone look into what happened in Scotland,” Niall says. “I’m really fuckin’ curious. But more importantly,” he adds hastily at Liam’s _please-stay-focused_ glare, “I do indeed have a plan, and it definitely involves getting you lot out of this shitty thing with Azoff. Because I may have sold two of my best friends out to a political organization that has very little regard for their health or happiness, but I sure as hell had a reason for it.”

            “Which was what?”

            Niall’s blue eyes are suddenly piercing as ice. “I want you on the throne, Liam.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Niall is such a mysterious scheming bastard....also #whathappenedinscotland (will you ever find out? maybe. maybe Louis and Zayn will carry the secret to their graves. Who knows?). 
> 
> I hope you guys liked this one! I'm on spring break right now so if any of you are too tell me in the comment what you're doing over break. hope everyone's having a nice week regardless of whether you're on break or not! and thank youuu to everyone hwo left lovely comment on the last chapter, you guys made my day. 
> 
> ( [tumblr](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com) and [fic post](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com/post/138359894039/viva-la-vida-by-iambluehead-pairing-zaynliam) )


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yayy it's up!! this is a bit of a shorter one because I'm still wiped out from running around New York for five days straight. But hopefully you'll still find some things in here that you like ;)) it's a ot5/relationship/plot building chapter, basically. hopefully it makes sense despite the fact that i wrote the majority of it past midnight while drinking cold hazelnut coffee. which actually wasn't terrible, not that i think of it. but anyway. that's enough. more rambling at the end.

So.

            Niall is a scheming Irish bastard, and Liam didn’t really see that one coming at all.

            There’s a short, electrified silence that makes the hairs on Liam’s arms stand up, and then Louis raises a hand timidly. “I have a question.”

            “Fire away.” Niall’s permissive arm wave is a grand gesture fitting of a man who has successfully shell-shocked a room full of people who are not easily shell-shocked.

            “The whole fuckin’ point of this rebellion is to get rid of the establishment. No offense, but Liam is definitely part of the establishment. So. This isn’t going to work, mate.”

            “Already thought of that,” Niall says calmly. “You’re wrong about trying to get rid of the establishment. That’s not what we’re trying to do. We’re trying to get rid of Simon. If we were tryin’ to do away with the establishment, we would be destroying the monarchy and putting in a different system—maybe democracy, maybe something else—but the point still stands that the actual establishment we have no problem with. It’s the people that run it.”

            Everyone stares at him blankly, and he sighs deeply, running fingers through his hair before flopping down on the foot of Liam’s bed. “I see you’re not convinced. Lemme explain this better, yeah?”

            “Okay,” Harry says, drawing out the two syllables for long enough that his suspicion seems almost a tangible thing in the room. Zayn is quiet in the corner, eyes narrowed to molten slits and arms crossed over his chest; it’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking.

            “Okay,” Niall says, shooting Harry a glance that’s utterly unimpressed with his disapproval. “This is why this is a good idea. Number one, like Azoff says, we need the noble support. Who do the nobles love better than Liam? Nearly all of them would be willing to get behind us if they knew that the power was going into his hands. Number two, the commoners love Liam enough that they wouldn’t mind him getting the throne. He’s never done anything to make them hate him, and he’s enough of a change to make everyone feel like something was getting done, but nothing drastic enough to make anyone feel threatened. Number three, the boy’s a born leader. Have you ever seen him work a room? Give him fifteen minutes and a crowd that’s half-willing to listen, and he’ll have them all ready to die for him by the end of it. He can get anyone who’s on the line on our side real fast. Number four, I trust him. I trust him to do right by the country. He will do what’s good for the people, and he will listen to the people, and he will fix what they want fixed. He doesn’t have a bad bone in his body, and he won’t let the power go to his head. I think that if we can pull this off, the country’ll be in a much better place with him in charge. Sure, there’ll be people who don’t trust him because of Simon, but there’ll be people who won’t trust the new king no matter what. I think we have the best chance with Liam as our figurehead, not as our puppet.”

            There’s another silence where the sound of everyone’s frantic thoughts is almost audible, and then Liam slowly says, “While that was all very gratifying to hear, I don’t think that’s going to work out, Niall. There’s no way in hell Azoff would let that happen. There’s no way in hell Simon would let that happen. And there’s too many people that hate me—there are too many Michaels who’d rather see me dead than on the throne. People aren’t going to trust someone who comes from the same stock as the people who’ve been hurting them all these years, and I can’t really blame them.” He pauses. “Would you like me to keep going, or have I blown enough holes in your plan for you to give it up?”

            “You definitely haven’t,” Niall says cheerfully. “You’re right in saying that Azoff won’t let it happen. Well, I say he can go suck a dick.”

            “I mean—”

            “You also said Simon won’t approve. Well, he’s also not going to approve of whoever else we put on the throne after we’ve thrown him off of it, so I don’t think we should let that stop us.”

            “Niall . . .”

            “You _also_ said, that people hate you too much for you to ever get their support. Well, sure, there are going to be some more Michaels. But I think you’d be surprised by how many people still love you, and how many more want to if you give them half a reason to. Besides,” he adds with a sharp grin, “you didn’t really think that I’d just be sitting on the sidelines watching, would you? You’d need someone to be revamping your image for you. I’m the bloke you need for that. Trust me, between your charm and my persuasion, we’ll have the country at your feet in a matter of days.”

            Liam opens his mouth and then closes it uselessly, wondering how else to tell Niall that this is a terrible idea that isn’t going to work. It’s hard to think of more reasons when Niall is sprawled here in front of him so gloriously cloaked in his own confidence, his utter assurance that this will work no matter what.

            “You do realize,” Zayn says, his voice bored in the most magnificent way, “that this is going to get us all killed, right? Because that’s exactly what this is going to do.” He sounds as if he’s not upset with the possibility in the slightest; he just wants to make sure everyone else is aware of the reality of where this plan is going.

            Niall frowns. “I would have to disagree with you on that one.”

            “Really. Then how about you tell me how the hell Azoff, the Circle, or Simon will find out about this without instantly wanting to put us all six feet under.” Zayn raises an eyebrow. “I’ll wait.”

            “Well, Jesus feckin’ Christ, Zayn, I’ve got some big bloody news for you: _they already want to kill us all anyway_. Simon definitely wants to kill us, and who knows, maybe Haz and Li too, Azoff definitely wants to kill them, and who knows, maybe us too, and the Circle has fair-mindedly come to the decision that they all would very much like to kill us all. I don’t see why that would be holding you back.”

            “You know,” Zayn says to no one in general, “for someone who really, really doesn’t want to die, I sure do surround myself with people who are trying to get killed.” He turns back to address Niall. “The different between now and if we go through with this is that right now, we’re small targets. Well, not really. Well. Not at all. So.”

            Niall watches him slowly run out of steam as he realizes that none of them are quite as unimportant in the grand scheme of things as he’d thought. “Exactly. So either we die or almost die playing their game, or we die or almost die while making them play ours. Choice is yours, lads.”

            Everyone is quiet for a moment. Liam is very aware of the eyes that are resting on him.

            Surprisingly, it’s Harry that’s the first to speak.

            “I think Liam is our best shot. I think he’d make a bloody brilliant king. And if trying to give him a chance to fix the country comes at the price of dying, well, then that’s something I’m willing to risk. I’ve had enough experience nearly dying for something I didn’t choice that doing it for something I have chosen should be relatively easy.” He lifts his chin defiantly. “I don’t want to go down in history as the person who stood on the sidelines while other people cleaned up the mess people like me have made. I want a chance to make up for everything to nobles have done. I’m throwing my lot in with you, Niall.”

            Niall looks ecstatic. “I knew it. Thanks, mate.”

            Harry nods. He suddenly looks both much older and much younger than he had a moment ago, like the declaration of his intentions froze him in a moment of timelessness, turned him into a marble statue. Everything, Liam knows, will be different from this moment on, this breathless moment in a hot and crowded hospital room with a throbbing stomach and a tight chest. He will look back on this and remember it as the schism between two ages of his life.

            “If pretty boy’s in, I’m in,” Louis says unexpectedly. “I’m bad at sitting on the sidelines too. You know me—always where the action’s thickest. God knows this is going to be a hell of a lot of action.”

            Niall claps him wordlessly on the shoulder. If he’d looked confident before, he looks like he could crush the world between his fingers now that he has Harry and Louis’ support. Everyone turns their attention to Zayn, still leaning against the wall with his arm in a sling and a deeply unimpressed expression (although Liam suspects that part’s more indicative of the effect he wants to create than the mood he’s actually in).

            “I’m in,” he says finally, “but only because _someone_ needs to keep you all from killing yourselves.”

            “That’s _really rich_ , coming from someone who gets almost-killed more often than the rest of us combined,” Louis says.

            “You’ve got a point,” Zayn says, “but regardless, I do not retract my statement.”

            “Quiet talking like a dictionary,” Louis throws back, and then turns to Liam. “Liam? Are you in? ‘Cause none of this matters if you’re not.”

            Liam lets out a long, shaky breath. If he does this—tries to put himself on the throne—he only has two possibilities left: become king, or die. There are going to be more people trying to kill him than ever, and it is very possible, as Zayn said, that they’re all going to end up dead.

            “I’m in,” he says slowly. “But not because I want to be. Just because I think—I trust you lot. I don’t think I’m ready, but if you think that I’d be a good king right now, than I’m going to listen to you and try to live up to your expectations. I’m in because I want to help in any way I can, and I think this is the biggest way to do it.” He feels a smile tugging at his lips. “Besides, the least we’ll do is make a statement and go down in style. And I’m sick of the inside of cells, anyway.”

            There’s a beat of silence, and then Louis wipes away an imaginary tear. “That,” he says in a voice that carries real warmth, “is my boy.”

            And it’s then, more than anything, that Liam realizes that they are a team.

***

            Liam has never really contemplated the difference between _us_ and _them_ , but he never thought that such a wide leap could be bridged by a few words and a common goal. In a matter of ten minutes, he, Harry, Zayn, Louis, and Niall have become _us_ while everyone else remains _them_. And disturbing and frightening as the difference is, it’s also reassuring to know that there are at least four people in the world who don’t want to kill him.

            Of course, the plan that’s currently uniting them could fall through at any given point and he could be stuck with just him and Harry against the world again, but—well, he finds himself not really wanting to think about that. Mainly because at this point, any way in which he could lose the support of the other boys will probably result in at least some of them dead.

            The dynamics of their little group are first tested by the practical implementation of Niall’s plan—or, as Louis dubs it, What We’re Going To Do Next. Louis is in firm favor of forcefully taking the negotiations to Azoff and talking him into supporting them, but everyone else—Liam included—is steadfast in their belief that not only will this not work, but that it will take away the one advantage they do happen to have at the moment: the element of surprise.

            “My thinking was that we’d keep this a secret as long as possible,” Niall admits when Louis’ finished talking. “Try and work undercover to see if anyone would be interested in helping us. Because we do need other people, you know. If we’re the only ones who want Liam on the throne, then we’d be just as bad as Simon by putting Liam there. We need to make sure the people are behind us and they want this the same as we do.”

            Louis grudgingly agrees that this is a good idea, but insists that they don’t need to do it undercover until Niall points out that if they tip their hand too soon, they could end up endangering more than just themselves—for instance, Louis’ family could end up dead.

            “Anyway,” Niall adds, “why would we deliberately try to distance ourselves from our greatest resource? We need to stay with the rebels for as long as we can, Tommo. If we reveal our plan a moment too soon, they’ll have our ‘eads off. And that’s the exact opposite of what we need. We’re not trying to make another branch of the rebellion, we’re trying to take over this one.”

            There’s no arguing with that logic, really, so they decide to go about as normal—Harry and Liam will stay in their cells and the other three will perform all their usual duties while trying to scout out more people to support them. Liam has a feeling that this is going to prove harder than Niall had anticipated, but the three rebels don’t seem daunted by the prospect of trying to sway people into putting Liam on the throne. He supposes it’s not the most dangerous thing they’ve ever done.

            The most important thing he learns from the first stages of planning is that they can function as a team. No, they won’t always agree, and Louis always has to be fighting with someone or else it won’t feel like anything’s getting done, and Harry always has to be politely doubtful about everything, and Niall will always somehow miraculously be able to produce a solution to whatever issue Louis is arguing about, and Zayn will always stand in the corner by the door looking amused and annoyed and occasionally egging on Louis and Niall, and Liam sometimes feels like he’s put his fate into the hands of the most ragtag group of people he’s ever met but—they also feel like the first real friends he’s ever had, and he’s beginning to think that every single one of them has a place in his heart that is new and tender and just for them. They can solve problems and get things done and make a plan, and everything, he realizes, might just work out of if they can just keep sticking together.

            (He doesn’t dare say any of that aloud, though, because Harry might start singing We’re All In This Together again, and he doesn’t need another reminder that he’s chosen the dorkiest person in the world to be his best friend.)

            In short, Liam’s fairly sure that none of them have got a single fucking clue what in the hell they’re doing, but he does know: the five of them together have rekindled a hope inside of him that he hasn’t felt for a long time. A hope he hasn’t felt since being kidnapped, or maybe even longer. The sort of hope, he thinks, that just needs a spark to set a nation on fire.

***

            “You called me Liam.”

            It’s nearly midnight, and for some reason Liam and Zayn are outside again. Zayn had claimed he wanted to stretch his legs with a bit of company, but he’s currently sprawled out on the grass, his arms behind his head while his eyes flicker rapidly over the countless stars above them, making Liam think that he just somehow knew that Liam’s been craving fresh air after the claustrophobia of the hospital room he’s been in lately. Liam, for his part, is seated cross-legged beside him, plucking at the grass aimlessly and trying not to breathe too deeply because his stomach still hurts quite a lot.

            Zayn cocks an eyebrow without looking away from the stars. “What’s this, now?”

            “You called me Liam,” Liam repeats, not quite sure what makes the words tear themselves free from his mouth.

            “When?”

            “Right after I got shot. You were trying to get me to calm down. And you called me Liam.”

            “Well, that’s your name, isn’t it?” Zayn doesn’t seem to understand the significance of what Liam’s saying, and maybe Liam doesn’t understand it either, but he knows that it’s there.

            “I—well, usually you call me Your Highness.”

            “Well,” Zayn says, drawing out the single syllable almost mockingly, “that’s your title, isn’t it?”

            Liam lets out a brief, frustrated sigh. “Yes, it is. But usually you don’t call me Liam. And you did then.”

            Zayn finally cranes his neck to look up at him, his expression oddly guarded. “I didn’t mean to. Sorry if it offended you, I was just—worried. I guess. It was a hectic moment.”

            Liam feels a little thrill at the thought that Zayn worries about him. Not because he _wants_ Zayn to be worried, exactly, but it’s nice to know that all the hours he’s spent wondering if Zayn is going to come back from whatever mission he’s currently on have not gone unreciprocated. “It didn’t offend me,” he admits softly. “It made me feel like you know I’m just human.”     

            “I know you’re human,” Zayn says. “That’s the difference between me and a lot of people. You’re human no matter what I call you, Your Highness.”

            There’s a strange, taut silence that feels like stretched silk in the moment before it tears, and then Liam blurts out, nervous as a teenager asking a girl to a dance, “My friends call me Liam.”

            Zayn nods slowly, eyes falling half-shut. “Are we friends?”

            Liam looks at him, studies the sharp angles of his face and the soft tousle of his unstyled hair. There’s a strange exhilaration that comes from looking at Zayn when Zayn’s not looking back, a weird thrill that comes from staring at him without his knowledge. “I’d like to think so.”

            Zayn laughs softly, but somehow Liam knows he’s not laughing at him. It’s directed at the whole unexpectedness of their friendship, of their meeting to begin with. “I guess we are. Should we make bracelets?”

            “I’d like that,” Liam says, mock-serious. “You make mine first.”

            Zayn sits up, a swift movement that’s not so much graceful as it is precise, and hunches over the dark grass, eyes searching it as intently as they’d been searching the stars. Before Liam can ask what he’s doing, he reaches out and plucks three long steams of grass, making a small noise of approval as he inspects them and carefully—with tiny, delicate motions that Liam wouldn’t have thought possible coming from the same hands that he’s seen fight so ruthlessly—begins to plait them.

            “Are you—”

            “Shush,” Zayn says without looking at him, “I’m not done yet, you dick.”

            He neatly makes a thin braid out of the grass and then takes Liam’s hand—again, far more gently than Liam expects—and after a few botched tries, ties it around Liam’s wrist.

            “There’s your bracelet,” Zayn says, looking pleased as he flops back down on the ground.

            “I didn’t actually want you to make one,” Liam says, an emotion he’s unable to name bubbling up inside of him like warm champagne. “I was joking.”

            “Imagine getting a fantastic thing you didn’t even ask for,” Zayn says, “what a life of privilege you lead, Your—Liam.”

            Liam’s name in Zayn’s mouth sounds strange and full of vowels that Zayn’s accent sneaks in unbidden: _Lee-yum_. It makes him unreasonably happy.

            “I suppose you want one, then?” he asks, mainly to distract himself. “Dunno if I know how to make these.”

            “One of these days I’ll teach you,” Zayn says. “Right now I’m too tired. Right now I’m going to tell you about this bloke named Cepheus, and how he ended up in the stars. Now listen.”

            And Liam, so used to giving the orders himself, so used to having people listen to him, lays down next to Zayn, and does.

***

            “I think our biggest problem might be the Circle, actually,” Zayn says one day when they’re all congregated in Liam’s cell to discuss in further depth exactly how they’re going to go about their suicidal plan.

            “Why’s that?” Niall asks, frowning.

            “They already hate Liam, so they’ll be sure to hate him even more once he announces he wants to be the king. And if we get most of the other rebels on our side, the split between us and them will be even bigger. Who knows what lengths they’ll go to in order to do things their way?” He shrugs. “All I’m saying is that they’re a problem. A big one. It doesn’t mean we can’t solve it.”

            “Of course we can solve it,” Louis says firmly. “It might take us a while, but we’re all smart people here. Well, except for pretty boy. His talents lay in his dimples and curls.”

            When he sees that Harry looks more offended than amused, he quickly amends, “Just pulling your leg, Harry. I’m sure you’re a bloody genius.”

            “You don’t need to be condescending,” Harry says in a hurt tone, pulling himself up to his full regal height and reminding them all that he’s by far the tallest one in the room.

            “I wasn’t being condescending—you know what, never mind. Niall, tell us how to solve the Circle problem.”

            Niall purses his lips in a very Louis-ish way and begins to expound upon the fact that he does not in fact know and can’t be relied on to magically solve everything for them anyway, and while everyone is busy doing this, Liam comes to the sudden conclusion that Louis is actually really into Harry.

            He’s sort of known that Louis had a soft spot for his friend (again, you don’t just routinely call someone pretty boy unless you actually, you know, think them pretty), but he hadn’t realized that all of Louis’ teasing and tricks and names were actually just a form of unsure flirting, like they were all once again in elementary and thought crushes were gross. It’s almost comical, now that he realizes it, and he has to choke back a half-hysterical laugh when he sees Louis watching Harry instead of Niall.

            Not too long ago, he could have instantly thought Louis’ feelings impossible, even offensive, but the longer he thinks about it, the longer he realizes that in this strange new world, in a world where they actually succeed in fixing a country with Liam at their head, Harry and Louis could actually have a chance together. It’s a testament to how odd the last few days have been that it’s not the weirdest thought he’s had lately.

            Liam is broken out of his thoughts by Niall says, “Listen, forget about the Circle for a second here, yeah? I have some good news for once.”

            They’re all instantly drawn to him like magnets. Sharks could not be more hungry for blood than they are for good news—it’s felt like forever since Liam has had any, anyway, and he’s sure the other feel the same.

            “I was talkin’ to a lad ‘o mine back at court when I was there last,” Niall says, “and the topic of you came up, Liam. He’s a noble, mind you, but a bold one, and I think he might be in league with us under a different name, maybe. Duke Sanders, d’you two know him?”

            “Vaguely,” Liam says.

            “All right, well, he implied he wouldn’t be unhappy to see Simon go. So I asked him who he’s rather have on the throne and—wait for it—he said you, Liam.”

            Liam’s heart leaps. They’re not alone, they’re not alone, they’re not alone.

            “So,” Niall says, looking tremendously pleased with himself, “I arranged for him to get in here and have a meeting with us. We could use his support, and more eyes at court, and having him might make our case to Azoff stronger.”

            “Niall, you bloody brilliant creature,” Louis says after a moment’s shocked, joyful silence. “You are the answer to all of my prayers.”

            He wrestle Niall into a fond headlock and scrubs his knuckles through his bottle-blond hair. Harry looks as though he’s suddenly viewing a particularly disgusting porno. Zayn just looks at Liam and smiles that sharp, easy smile that Liam thinks he’ll cut himself on one day.

            “We might be able to pull this off after all,” he says, and Liam can’t explain the swelling feeling in his chest that those words bring.

            They haven’t got much, but they’ve got each other. And fuck it all if that’s not enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand that's a wrap. lots of talking and not much action, i know. don't worry, shit will go d o w n p soon! can you feel things building up?
> 
> basically, we have two more chapters in the first part of this fic, and then we'll have a bit of a time jump, and a scene change, and some other things. funnnn stuff ;))) and with that cryptic statement, i take my leave. Thank you thank you thank you to everyone who commented last chapter!!!! you guys are the best i love you all and i actually responded in a semi-timely fashion this time. amazing, i know. 
> 
> [tumblr](https://iambluehead.tumblr.com) and [fic post](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com/post/138359894039/viva-la-vida-by-iambluehead-pairing-zaynliam)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to use the author's notes this week to complain about the terrible week I've had, but then today ended being a good day and I got considerably less bitter about everything else, and so instead I'm going to use this platform to talk about pistachio frozen yogurt, which I just discovered today. Let me just say, if you have not tried it, you have not lived. It is the most delicious flavor of frozen yogurt in existence, and I want you all to go out and buy yourself some if you have the means to. if you do not, I'm coming to wherever you live, and bringing some with me so you can experience it. 
> 
> On a more relevant note, this chapter is a sort of a "calm before the storm" chapter. Aka, it's the last chapter before everything goes to shit and you all come after me with pitchforks and torches. So enjoy it, I guess.

The tiny triumph of recruiting Duke Sanders lights a fire in them, opens up a hunger inside them that Liam didn’t think could live in him. For the first time he truly understands the rebels—there’s a void in the universe somewhere, and they can feel it in their souls. There’s an insatiable hunger they all carry that doesn’t just want change, it demands it. With this kind of force driving them, this kind of determination at their backs, he doesn’t see how they won’t be able to prevail. The nobles have nothing like this in their blood; in court, everyone is sleepy with success, drunk on the absence of danger. _This_ feels like an injection of quicksilver. _This_ is stars and champagne in his arteries.

            Sometimes, when he’s not around the others, the doubts start to creep in again—how can he possibly throw his own uncle off the throne, when Simon has given him everything, including his right to the crown? How can he pull off that kind of betrayal when he’s never even been able to stand up against Simon? Will the people trust him if he turns against his own family? Most importantly, is he ready to rule? Do the people want him?

            Niall is skilled at reassuring him, especially about bringing the commoners to his side, but what usually works the best is just submerging himself in the dynamic of all five of them together. It makes him feel invincible in a way he’s never felt before. They are an army of five that’s ready to take on the world.

            Of course, they don’t always get along—the differences in their upbringings and opinions are far too great for that. Harry and Louis are usually at odds the most, but Liam is fairly sure that about ninety percent of that stems from their unresolved sexual tension. The other ten percent can probably be attributed to Louis’ frustration with Harry’s privilege and reluctance when it comes to taking risks, and Harry’s frustration with Louis’ constant teasing and thoughtlessness.

            “What do you mean, pretty boy?” Louis snaps, bristling after a throwaway comment about Louis always being at base. “You think that I’m not good enough to go out on missions? You think I’m here all the time because of that? Is that what you’re saying?”

            Harry looks shocked at Louis’ instant jump to this conclusion, but is immediately up in arms. “That’s _not_ what I said, stop putting words in my mouth. You always do this—you always make up shit I didn’t say so you can get angry at me, and then you mock me for the things I do say, _and_ I want you to stop calling me pretty boy, I don’t like it—”

            “Well, I want a country that hasn’t been brought to the edge of ruin by an upper class of corrupt and violent nobles who have very little regard for the life of people like me, but you can’t always get what you want, _Your Grace_ ,” Louis says, very fast and all in one breath.

            Liam swears Harry is about to punch Louis in the face. “You didn’t have to make it _political_ like that, Louis, what the fuck? That wasn’t even what we were talking about?”

            “Yes, it was,” Louis snaps, sounding more than a little hysterical. “Every damn thing we talk about is political! My entire life is politics! So’s yours! We’re so damn political that I can’t even wank anymore without thinking about what it’d be like to have Simon off the throne!”

            “Too much information,” Zayn and Niall chorus in unison. Louis just sneers at them before flopping face down on Liam’s bed with a little too much force for it to be entirely unpainful on the hard mattress.

            “What do you want to talk about, then?” Harry asks, his voice suddenly soft, and not in that dangerous way it sometimes gets soft. He sounds like might actually feel sorry for Louis.

            “Food,” Louis says after a moment of thought. He sounds a little suspicious of Harry’s sudden change in tone. “What’s the best food they have at court? I want to try it someday.”

            “They have these cream puffs,” Harry says instantly. “They’re like heaven in pastry form. You’d have to actually try one to really understand it, but—my God, it’s like biting into a cloud. They’re so light and fluffy, and the custard is sweet and perfect—I’m getting hungry just talking about it.” He glances at Louis’ prone form. “You’ll get to try them someday, I’m sure.”

            “You guys are like an old married couple,” Niall says before Louis can reply. “Bickering and then seamlessly making up in space between two fuckin’ seconds. Also, I feel like those cream puffs are a metaphor for sucking dick.”

            “ _How_?” Harry asks at the same time Louis grumbles, “Who even uses words like seamlessly?”

            “I do,” Niall says. “And I dunno, that’s just the feeling I was getting.”

            “Also,” Harry says before Louis can get whatever nasty comment he’s coming up with out of his mouth, “we don’t like a married couple. There is nothing going on like that between us whatsoever.”

            “Wow, Harry, that was a convincing denial. I’m sure they’ll believe that,” Louis deadpans.

            “See?” Harry nearly shouts, flinging out a demonstrative hand and nearly smacking Zayn in the face. “He makes fun of everything I do. What happened to you to make you such a shitbag, Tomlinson?”

            “Maybe the crushing poverty of our current economic system and the death of my father at the hands of royal troops,” Louis hisses, sitting up straight and narrowing his eyes.

            “That’s _not_ fair!” Harry bellows. “You can’t blame me for that!”

            “Watch me,” Louis throws back.

            Niall holds up both hands before they can come to blows. “Listen, lads, I didn’t want to start a fight, all right? Can you at least hold yourselves in check until Sanders comes tomorrow? We need a united front for him, and it’ll take all of our cooperation and wits to sneak him in and out o’ here safely.”

            Because of course that’s what’s happening tomorrow. If Liam thinks about it too much, he’ll make himself sick with nerves. Recruiting Sanders is the first big step in their plan, the first major test to Liam’s charisma and character. No one’s said it yet, but he knows that if he can’t do this, their prospects will look much bleaker.

            But Liam has never been one for lying down and letting something like failure happen to him. He has always, always been desperate for success, the gratification of knowing that he did something well. He knows that he can do this, or he will die trying.

            Maybe that’s what all of them—Niall especially—sees in him. That thirst for something better, that ache to do well, that need for helping other people in way only he can. Maybe that’s all it takes to be a leader, in the end. Maybe a king is just someone who wants to be something so badly that he’s willing to carve the curvature of the earth to fit into his schemes.

            _Wanting_ is a dangerous thing.

***

            That evening, Liam is lying in his bed going through everything he plans to say tomorrow when someone knocks briefly on his door and then opens it.

            It’s Zayn, which makes Liam’s insides do something funny, maybe because there’s a little purple light coming in through the window from the syrupy remains of the sunset, and it softens Zayn’s face into something that’s at once alien and familiar. He looks tired and quiet and vulnerable, like he stumbled out of bed just to come visit Liam.

            “”Ey,” he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed without invitation and setting down two books on Liam’s legs. “I got you the next two Game of Thrones books.”

            “Game of Thrones is the show, not the books,” Liam corrects automatically.

            Zayn grins. “I knew I’d make an addict out of you.” He pats the covers of the books softly. “I thought they might help you figure out what to say to Sanders. Maybe take a few tips from Tyrion or summat.”

            “Tyrion was a good politician up until the part where he almost gets sentenced to death,” Liam says thoughtfully. “I’d like to avoid that part of his storyline.”

            Zayn nods, face serious. “I actually feel like Margaery is the true politician of the series. Like, you can’t deny that she played her cards impeccably.”

            “That’s what I think! She’s one of the only ones who hasn’t gotten busted yet.”

            “Okay—Littlefinger. He’s another big one.”

            “True, but I sort of bloody hate him. He’d literally rather see the kingdom burn than give up power.”

            “Sounds like someone we both know,” Zayn quips, and Liam abruptly sobers.

            “You don’t know my uncle.”

            There’s a long pause, and Zayn nods again. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t make jokes about it.”

            Liam shrugs. “It’s fine. I think it’s probably healthy to joke about it—the other option we have is being terrified all the time. It’s just—people don’t know him. They think they do; they think he’s some completely evil bloke they can just typify into a supervillain but he’s not.” He stares resolutely at the ceiling, not wanting to see how Zayn reacts to his words. “He’s been kind to me, you know? He’s done his share of shit to me—there’s all kinds of things he didn’t tell me—but he’s my uncle, and I can’t help but love him. No matter how hard I try.”

            “I’m glad,” Zayn says softly. “I don’t think I could trust you if you didn’t love him. You’re a good bloke, Liam. Good people don’t just throw away family.”

            Liam shifts uncomfortably under Zayn’s steady golden gaze. He feels oddly bare, like he’s spilled his heart out to the other man.

            “You trust me?” he says finally, because he can’t think of anything else to say.

            “Of course I trust you,” Zayn says without hesitation. “I wouldn’t be trying to put you on the throne if I didn’t. And I’d hope that you trust me, too.”

            Liam isn’t proud to say that it takes him longer than Zayn to reply, but eventually he quietly says, “I trust you.”

            Zayn shoots him a quick smile, suddenly all sharp edges again. “I’d hope you do, Your Highness. Cause one of these days I’ll probably be saving your arse again.”

            “Liam,” Liam says.

            “Sorry?”         

            “Liam. Not Your Highness.”

            Zayn smiles again, slower and softer this time. If Liam didn’t know him better he’d almost say it was shy. “You’re right. I forgot.” He stands up, the curve of his neck turned silver in the rapidly fading light. “Goodnight, Liam.”

            “Goodnight.”

            There are many things that have confused him since this whole fiasco began, Liam reflects as Zayn closes the door behind him, but few have puzzle him as deeply as Zayn Malik.

            He goes to bed with the stars singing in his veins, and the weirdly comforting knowledge that Zayn will have his back tomorrow.

***

            “So. Your Highness. I was promised a show.” Duke Sanders has a smirk like a knife and a cool, ineffable face with smooth pale skin and a strong jaw. “So where’s the show?”

            “I don’t know quite what you mean by a show,” Liam says carefully. “If you mean that you were promised our intentions, those I can definitely offer.”

            Duke Sanders tilts his head. “Everyone has intentions, Your Highness. Anyone can want to be king. What I see right now is a captive who wants to be a king. I was promised that you would show me that you are more than just that.”

            “You’re certainly right about that,” Liam says. “But I have a significantly better claim to the throne than just anyone.”

            The duke inclines his head again. “You definitely do. But this revolution isn’t about who has the right to the throne, is it? Your uncle has the best claim to the throne, so under those rules we shouldn’t even be sitting here. This revolution is about who will actually deliver once they’re on the throne, about who will serve the people the best, about who will be the best leader for a demoralized and broken country.”

            “Of course,” Liam says. The duke reminds him of Azoff in some ways—a skilled political player with his own definitive intentions—but he also has two traits that Liam thinks will be useful: he hasn’t yet picked a side, and when he does, he wants to be on the winning side. And it’s Liam that he’s come to. Which means he thinks Liam has the best chance of winning this whole thing, despite the fact that Liam has a grand total of five people on his side and is currently sitting in a prison cell. “Listen, I think what you want to hear is very simple. You want to know if I’m the same as my uncle, yes?”

            “Not really,” the duke says with a shrug. “I’m assuming that you’re not, quiet honestly. I want to know what you’re going to fix this miserable sod of a country once we put you on the throne. And don’t give me some politician-speak bullshit, if you please. I’d like something definitive and comprehensive.”

            Liam swallows, his throat suddenly dry. This is the test. “I’d like to make a plan to involve more commoners in government positions, and lead an investigation in the military to put an end to the illegal acts of terror they are currently committing. I think that a closer connection with the people is the way to go about this—we need to involve them more, ask their opinions more, treat them more like humans. I want to remind the government of its sole purpose of creation, which is to serve and protect the people. I want to lower the taxes to a sustainable rate, where businesses can thrive but the government can also prosper. I want to cut military spending, because God knows they’ve done enough internal damage, and use those funds to rebuild our crippled and struggling cities. And most importantly, I want to find and replace every single government official or noble who had anything to do with our country’s current predicament.”

            There’s a short silence. Then: “You have some good ideas. Many of them will be hard to implement, but no one ever said this was going to be easy, so I’m all right with that. Do you think the people will support you? Aren’t they done with nobles and royals?”

            “I don’t think so,” Liam says honestly. “I think the problem is with my uncle and his corrupt advisors, not with nobles as a whole. I think I can offer the country two different sides of a coin, both of which are equally craved right now: I’m fresh blood with plenty of good ideas, an openness to change, and a willingness to listen, and yet at the same time I’m still something familiar and steadying to steer the country through this storm.”

            “That’s very true.” Duke Sanders looks at him closely. “Could you really betray your family? It’s one thing to criticize him on his method, and an completely other one to actually take him out of power. You do realize he could end up dead. More importantly, the people may not trust you if you show a willingness to stab your own uncle in the back that easily.”

            Liam chooses his next words very carefully. “I think it will be hard. No, I know that it will be hard. It will be difficult and painful to lose the trust of the only family member I have left. But I am going to do it—I am going to betray my own uncle not because I want to do it for power, but because there are many other in the country who have lost far greater things than what I am giving up, and if giving up my family willingly helps many more people keep theirs, then I will shoulder the responsibility and guilt gladly.”

            The duke looks impressed—he hides it well, but Liam, who’s been picking people’s true emotions out of their political pandering his whole life, sees the _that’s a good answer_ that lies implicit in the barely perceptible arch of his brows. He relaxes a little.

            “That’s a noble view on it,” Sanders says finally. “It’s also a very good cover up for what could be a very power hungry individual. But I believe you truly mean it, Your Highness. You strike me as a good man, and an honest one.”   

            “I hope you won’t only base your judgment of me on goodness and honesty, Your Grace,” Liam says. “Those two qualities do not make a good leader, though they often make a good man. A good leader must be a good man, but he must also be a moral one, a compassionate one, and a harsh one. There will be difficult sacrifices that must be made, and people who will die, and a world that is watching who will perhaps not be accepting of me—for my young age and other reasons. I hope you do not just see an honest man and think the struggle is over, because it is just beginning, and there is still a long way to the throne.”

            Now the impressed look on the duke’s face is blatant. “You’re right in saying that, Your Highness.”

            Liam inclines his head a little. “Indeed.”

            There’s a brief silence, and then Niall clears his throat. “Well, what’s the verdict, mate? You’ve got your look at him; we need an answer.”

            For a single, airless second, Liam thinks he’s going to reject them, and then a slow smile spreads over the duke’s angular face.

            “I say let’s get this boy in front of a crowd.”

***

            “You know,” Zayn says, “I think Dany and Jon are going to end up together.”

            “You think?”

            “Yeah. If Jon’s actually a Targaryen—he could be one of the three dragon heads that the prophecy talks about.”

            Liam considers this; it’s more plausible than he would have thought at first. “You could be right. I don’t know if they’d like each other, though.”

            “Sure they would,” Zayn scoffs. “Once they got past their families’ history, they’d get along fine. They both have an unflinching sense of morality and a self-imposed obligation to help others. That’s enough to make them a power couple.”

            They are, of course, discussing their theories for the as-of-yet-unreleased sixth Game of Thrones book, as Liam finished the fifth one earlier that day. Liam loves talking to the Zayn that shows himself during their conversations about the books Zayn brings him—he drops the military discipline and single-minded focus that emerges when they’re talking politics, and becomes someone much younger, someone funny and clever and comforting, someone Liam very much thinks he’d like to get to know. It makes him very aware of Zayn’s young age—he’s not sure exactly how old he is, but he can’t be any older than Liam—and of the people the two of them could be if things were a little different. If this was the floor of a uni dorm they were sprawled on instead of a jail cell, and if they were a pair of students instead of a pair of rebels planning to overthrow a corrupt king.

            “I don’t think Dany and Jon could end up together,” he finally says quietly. “They’re too different, and their situation is too dangerous. It would hurt both of them to love each other. Maybe—maybe if things were different.”

            There was a brief pause, and then, at the same time, they both realize that Liam really isn’t talking about Game of Thrones anymore.

            “I guess we’ll see,” Zayn says finally, and Liam is a little disappointed that he doesn’t say something else—what exactly, he’s not sure.

            “Niall’s going back to court tomorrow, yeah?”

            “Yeah. Hopefully not for too long, and he says that he’ll be able to get away quickly if something comes up and we need him.” Zayn hesitates. “Which we probably will, at this rate.”

            Liam gets a bad feeling in his stomach. “Why’s that?”

            “The Circle—well. We’ve been having some problems.”

            Liam just looks at him with apprehension, the feeling that things are about to go to shit with his next words spreading rapidly throughout him. Zayn’s expression is serene, but Liam knows him well enough by now to realize that means nothing; Zayn could have a gun pointed between his eyes and still look serene. It’s just his way of not letting people see what he’s thinking.

            “They want you,” Zayn continues. “Which, I mean, I don’t blame them, you’re fit—”

            “ _Zayn_ ,” Liam says explosively, equal parts angry and scandalized and flattered.

            “Bad timing, sorry,” Zayn says with a crooked smile. “But they do. Want you, I mean. They’re refusing to cooperate with us until you’re handed over.”

            “And no one thought to tell me this before now?” Liam demands.

            “I just found out today. I don’t think Azoff is going to do; you’re too valuable right now.”

            “More valuable than the support and numbers of the Circle?”

            “Hopefully.” He glances over at Liam as if trying to gauge how frightened he is. “Don’t worry, though, if Azoff decides to hand you over, we should be able to get you out of here and on the run before anything happens. Obviously, that’s not ideal, because we’d be focusing on keeping you safe rather than recruiting people, but—” He shrugs. “We’ll do what we have to. Don’t worry about it.”

            “Of course I’m going to worry about it.”

            Zayn sighs. “Of course you are.”

            “You can’t tell me something like that and expect me not to worry, Zayn.”

            “Well, I was hoping you’d trust us to keep you safe, and focus on running your campaign.”

            Liam scoffs. “ _My campaign_. There’s no campaign to speak of. We have five people plus one new recruit, and most of the people in the country seem to want me dead. I haven’t even done anything yet but make a bunch of empty promises to a man who could very easily be a spy of my uncle’s, and yet somehow you lot seem to think I’m the next Richard the Lionhearted. We all must be fucking delusional, because there’s no way in hell this is going to work out.”

            “I certainly hope you don’t mean that,” Zayn says mildly. “It would be rather disheartening to have the star of our show lose faith that we’ll do well on opening night.” He glances over at Liam again; there’s no indication of how worried he is except for a faint crease between his eyebrows. Liam wants to reach over and smooth it out. “I think you should trust us, just like you said you would at the beginning. There’s not telling what’s going to happen; all we can do is wait and react and try again if we fail. If you trust our judgment, then you’ve also got to have trust in yourself, because every one of us has faith in you.”   

            Liam takes in a deep breath. Tries to will his heart to beat slower. It doesn’t work, but he feels a little better for it.

            “I’m trying,” he says finally. “I’m trying.”

            “That’s all anyone can do,” Zayn says with an air of closure, as that is all there is to be said about the matter, as if Liam’s life—all of their lives—isn’t on the line.

            The conversation between them dies down, but the silence is somehow comfortable the way it is with Harry, despite the anxiety roiling in both of their stomachs. It’s a testament to how close the five of them have become in the past weeks, that they’re sitting here like this without words and not feeling the need to fill the emptiness.

            _Surely_ , Liam thinks desperately, _surely, that has to count for something. Surely the five of us aren’t an accident. Surely there has to be some bigger plan for them, something that isn’t going to end with brilliant blood at the hands of the Circle. People don’t just fall into each other like this unless there’s a reason for it._

            “I reckon I’ll get going,” Zayn sys after a bit. “It’s getting late, there’s a short mission Louis and I have to get done tomorrow.”

            Liam’s head shoot up, and he raises an eyebrow.

            “We’ll be back by evening; there won’t even be any violence. We’re just doing a quick supply run.”

            Liam’s inordinately pleased that Zayn picked up on his worry so quickly, that Liam’s concern was given. “Okay. Be careful, yeah?”

            “Always am.” 

            “I know, but—just. Be careful.”

            Zayn smiles softly and stands up. “All right. You get some rest and try not to worry.”

            “Worry? What’s that?”

            Zayn’s smile widens into a grin. “Good night, Liam.”

            “Good night.”

            The door closes behind him, and Liam’s left to wonder how it’s possible that with everything going on around them, Zayn’s smile can still make him feel warm inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is Liam finally catching feelings??? are these stupid boys finally seeing that they're soulmates????? can Blue really be finally writing a romance story instead of a political one?????????
> 
> anyway, I hope you're all still enjoying the fic! Things will get realllllll interesting next chapter, I promise. I will see you all then ;))
> 
> don't forget to say hi on [tumblr](https://iambluehead.tumblr.coml) and [reblog](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com/post/138359894039/viva-la-vida-by-iambluehead-pairing-zaynliam) the fic post!!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay helloo sorry this is a bit later in the day than usual; i had work and then i went to the movies today so i didn't have much time to post. also, to make up for it, this chapter is extra long--I haven't posted a chapter this long in a while, actually. and a LOT of shit goes down. 
> 
> I don't want to talk too much before this chapter because I'm very excited for you all to read it, because I've been planning some of this stuff for over a year, so let's get into it! This is the last chapter in the first part of the fic; after this one we'll move into a sort of a different plot line and fast forward in time a bit and stuff. but i'll talk about that more next week! on to the chapter!!

_Dear Liam,_

_I don’t think I’ve ever written a letter before in my life. I’m serious. Either I’ve had a secretary type something official up for me, or I’ve sent an email. But since you’re in that prison of yours, isolated in the Stone Age without technology, I reckon I’ll have to make do with what I can get. You’ll get this within a day or so of me sending it, anyway—it’s not like I’m using the post!_

_Anyway, enough of that. The reason I’m writing to you is because I have some good news. There’s nothing I love better than being the bearer of good news, and lately I’ve had quite a lot for you. To put it simply, without all the formal bullshit noble-speak that I’ve been putting up with the past few days, you have a load of powerful friends here at court. People who have either gotten word of what we’re doing, or guessed it, and want to throw in their lot._

_How’s that for good news???_

_I’ll bring a formal list when I get back to base—I don’t want to endanger our friends by writing down all their names in one convenient spot—but until then, know that we have some real punch on our side. I think people are starting to get the message that the rebellion isn’t slowing down, and Simon probably won’t stay on the throne forever, and probably a lot of nobles would rather have you on the throne than Azoff, so they want to make sure you’re the winning team. Duke Sanders helped too, of course; and once we get you out of jail and talking to people, I’m sure you’ll rake in more support just like you raked in him._

_We’re on a good track, mate. We’ve got a real chance of pulling this off._

_It’s risky, putting our plans on paper like this, but I had to let you know, mainly because I reckon you lot are feeling pretty down back at base, what with the whole Circle situation. Don’t worry about that, though, I’m sure it’ll work out. Anyway, about the writing-shit-down thing—once you get this letter, destroy it, okay? I’d suggest eating it, but if you can’t eat that much paper at once, rip it up as small as you can and eat it in increments. Or something equally effective._

_That’s all, Payno! Keep your chin up, mate. We’re all watching out for you._

_Niall._

            “Every goddamn person wants to tell me I don’t need to worry,” Liam says, throwing the paper down on the bed and then throwing himself after it. “No one wants to tell me how much danger I’m actually in.”

            “How about you focus on the good news we just got, not the fact that Niall innocently tried to reassure you about the Circle,” Harry says mildly, staring up at the ceiling instead of at Liam.

            “I did focus on that,” Liam replies, trying not to sound too peevish. “Now I’m focusing on something else.”

            He knows he’s being ungracious about the whole thing, but he just—he wants something to _happen_. His limbs are itching to move a greater distance than the length of his cell, and he feels useless just sitting here while the other boys do all the work. The way he looks at it, he’s been kidnapped and held hostage for weeks now (how many, he’s not sure). He’s earned the right to be a bit irritable.

            “Being petty doesn’t become you, Liam,” Harry half sing-songs, his voice still mild, like he can’t work up enough energy to put any force in his tone. “S’not _kingly_.”

            “I know. But right now I don’t much feel like a king, Harry.”

            “The king should always be the best man in the room. He should always be the strongest when there is doubt, the bravest when there is fear, the kindest when there is cruelty. If a king ceases to be the best man wherever he goes, he ceases to be a king.” Liam blinks a little at the words of his father coming out of Harry’s mouth; he hadn’t thought his friend had known about that particular mantra. “A true king isn’t a king because he has a crown and a throne, Liam. A true king is a king despite the fact he doesn’t have any of that—maybe even because of it. You’re only going to be a good ruler if you can be one now, when it’s hardest.”

            “That’s some type of shit Mufasa would say,” Liam grumbles, which is his way of saying that Harry is right.

            It’s Harry’s turn to blink. “Who?”

            “From the Lion King. He’s the dad that dies.”

            Harry brightens. “Oh, yeah! Did you know that The Lion King is actually based on Hamlet?”

            “I actually did. I’m actually fairly sure everyone knows that.”

            There’s a short silence after that, and then Harry says, “When d’you think Lou and Zayn will be back?”

            Liam shrugs. “Soon enough. They’re good—they’re smart and strong and they’ve got each other’s backs. They’ll be fine.”

            “Yeah.” Harry doesn’t sound convinced, but that’s not surprising given that Liam can’t talk even himself out of his worry. “Not too long ago we didn’t give a shit about them. Look how far we’ve come since then.”

            “God, I know,” Liam says. “A month ago you and Louis hated each other, and now you want to hate-fuck each other. What a time to be alive.”

            “That,” Harry says regally, “is not true.”

            “Sure it’s not.”

            “It’s not. I just think—there might be an attraction. A mutual one. Just like, aesthetically. Nothing more than that, though.”

            “You _think_?” When Harry looks unamused, Liam sighs and stretches. “Listen, I’m not judging you. I mean—well. I think maybe, like. Zayn.”

            Harry raises an eyebrow, smirking a little. “What about him?”

            “Oh, for god’s sake don’t make me spell it out.”

            The other man’s smirk widens. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about, Liam.”

            “I think that we might like—I might, I think I might. You know. Like you said. There’s an attraction.”

            Apparently, Harry decides that he’s suffered enough for one day, because the next thing he says is said kindly: “I mean, Zayn’s a fit bloke; I don’t blame you. I think he might have a thing for you, too, like—all that calling you _Your Highness_ and bringing you his favorite books and going for walks to look at the stars and shit. It’s definitely possible.”

            “It’s just, like, people in our position—”

            “Exactly.”

            “Especially given the current situation.”

            “Exactly,” Harry repeats. “Which is why I’m not going to be worrying about it. Either it’ll work out or it won’t. We have bigger problems.”

            “Like, for instance—just to bring us back to the start of this conversation—the Circle. And how they’d like to kill me.”

            “Don’t be dramatic,” Harry says. “Ninety percent of the people in the current political game want to kill you. They’re nothing special.”

            “God, now you sound like the boys.”

            “The boys?”

            “I mean—the rebels. Zayn and Niall and Louis. You know who I meant.”

            Harry smiles soft. “I like that. The boys. Our rebel boys.”

            “Our rebel boys,” Liam repeats, and an echo of Harry’s smile etches itself onto his face. “I like that too.”

***

            They’re being forced to stay in the same cell currently; Liam thinks it’s that thing about “a tight guard on one cell is better than a loose guard on two” thing again. It’s not that he minds having Harry move in with him every time their lives are threatened—it’s nice having someone around to comfort and be comforted by—but it does make him nervous, because it means the rebels are also nervous. (He thinks it’s sort of funny, the way he still doesn’t think of himself as a rebel, because he completely is.) Also, the rebels who bring them food and take them to the bathroom (Liam is looking forwards to the day when he’ll be able to take a shit in peace) aren’t like Louis and Zayn and Niall, or even the relatively friendly Perrie and Josh. They’re resentful of him—a bitter reminder that no matter how much he tries to fix the country, he’s still part of the problem—and more importantly, don’t give him any of the valuable info about the outside world that he’s become used to receiving from his boys.

            So he has no idea what the hell is going on out there. A political blindfold is more disconcerting than he’d thought it would be.

            Mainly, though, he’s worried because the supply run Louis and Zayn went on was only supposed to last a day, and it’s been three. He supposes he should have seen it coming; everything was going much too well for something not to fuck up. And he hasn’t heard from Niall since he’d gotten the encouraging letter about having support at court. And he still doesn’t know what the situation with the Circle is right now. For all he knows Azoff could be hammering out the deal to hand him over right this very second. He’s starting to realize what the boys mean by not worrying about it, though—it’s not that the situation isn’t dangerous, it’s that he can’t do anything to change it, so he may as well be channeling his energy into more productive things, like trying to figure out how the hell he’s supposed to be getting the common people on his side once he gets out of this godforsaken prison.

            Honestly, spending every waking minute between the same four fucking walls is getting very tedious.

            But maybe luck loves Liam a little better than it loves everyone else—maybe it’s smiling on him a little brighter, as if he needed more privilege heaped on his plate when everyone else has so little—because the next morning, when he wakes up thinking he’ll go crazy from not knowing what happened to the boys, Louis and Zayn waltz into the cell bearing breakfast and broad smiles.

            “You lads will never guess what news we have for you,” Louis says in lieu of a greeting.

            “I don’t care!” Harry says explosively, springing to his feet at a speed Liam wouldn’t have thought possible for his languid friend. “You come sashaying back in here like you haven’t been worrying us for days, without an apology, without an explanation, and don’t even think to say hello? You think that’s okay? That’s just fucking rude, Louis! Just fucking rude! DO you even have any concept of how worried I was? How worried we were? And you don’t even think—you don’t even think, because you never do—of telling us what held you up, or whether you’re hurt, or if you’re okay?”

            Louis recoils a little and then says in an offended voice, “I do not _sashay_.”

            “You do,” Zayn says. “You really, really do.”

            Louis points at him. “That’s stereotyping me and I don’t appreciate it.”

            “Wow, Mr. White Man, it must be really hard for you to be stereotyped. Wow, let me think. I wonder how that would feel.”

            “Don’t even talk,” Louis says, “this is about me and inability to sashay. I don’t sashay, Zayn.”

            “What about that time when—”

            “What about when you—”

            “What about—”

            “ _Scotland_ —”

            “ _Enough_!” Harry thunders, and his deep voice combined with the fact that he’s the tallest person in the room makes the whole effect quite impressive. The two rebels shut up, more out of curiosity than actual fear. “Tell us what held you up.”

            “Azoff pulled us out of the supply run to come work out a deal with the Circle.”

            “That took four day?”

            “It did,” Zayn confirms. “And it was bloody worth it, because you two are—wait for it—completely safe.”

            There’s a beat of silence. “What?” Liam says eventually. They haven’t been completely out of danger for so long that the words sound like a foreign language in his mind.

            “He basically gave the Circle the middle finger and decided that not only was he going to keep you two, but that he also didn’t want them associated with our cause anymore. So they’re all moving out today and then we won’t have to deal with keeping the guard on your cell so tight, you lot will be to walk around outside more, we’ll be able to sneak visitors and messages in and out easier, and basically everything will be better.”

            Liam lets out a long sigh. “For real?”

            Zayn grins. It’s the biggest smile Liam has seen on his face in a long time. It’s like the goddamn sun coming out. Liam hates himself. “For real.”

            Harry’s face has been brightening the whole time Zayn had been talking; now he flings out his arms and pulls Zayn into a hug. “I could kiss you right now,” he mumbles into Zayn’s neck. “Just for bringing us that news.”

            Louis clears his throat loudly. “This is extremely uncomfortable for the rest of us, pretty boy.”

            “M’name’s not pretty boy,” Harry says. “And don’t get too jealous, Tomlinson. I’m coming for you next.”

            “That’s what he said,” Louis quips, but falls into Harry’s arms like it’s what he’s been waiting for his whole life. He looks very small and delicate next to Harry’s lanky frame, something Liam wouldn’t have thought possible for someone with such an enormous personality. He can’t help but notice that Louis’ hug lasts a lot longer than Zayn’s had, even though Zayn had been the one to tell the news. He and Zayn exchange a significant look, and Liam has to suppress a laugh.

            “Now that we’ve gotten that over with,” he says when Harry and Louis break apart. “I have a very important question.”

            “Shoot,” Louis says, still looking for too pleased for a man who just scored a mere hug.

            “Can I go to the bathroom by myself now?” Liam asks with the straightest face possible. “I promise I’m not going to escape through the sewer pipes.”

            When everyone bursts out laughing, Liam feels an unexpected rush of affection for all of them, his ragtag team of believers with enough faith and determination to move mountains. They fit into each other’s arms and smooth out each other’s edges. They’re a group of codependent planets orbiting around the sun of their common cause. They’re a five-piece jigsaw puzzle They’re brothers-in-arms. They’re invincible.

***

            They don’t see Louis and Zayn at all the next day. There are voices that confer loudly and anxiously outside their door, but no one comes. Footsteps race up and down the hallway and more than once there’s the sound of a faint, distant gunshot. Liam doesn’t need to know what’s going on to know that something is very wrong. They’ve never been left alone without food or water like this. Harry gets the window open a half inch to take a piss out of, which would have been funnier if the whole situation hadn’t been so goddamn pathetic.

            “What if it’s a Crown raid?”

            “You mean if they finally found us?” Liam asks. It’s a concept that he hasn’t thought about in what feels like so long that it’s hard to believe it was once his dearest hope.

            “What would you do? We’re not even on the Crown’s side anymore.”

            “We’d have to pretend to be, and just work our magic from the inside. It might actually be more effective.”

            Harry nods slowly. “It’s weird, to think that we would have given anything to go home not too long ago.”

            “I know. Now I’d give anything just for all of us to be safe.”

            They don’t speak much after that. The gunshots are getting closer.

***

            They’re woken up by the sound of loud arguing outside their door at what must be well past midnight. Liam can hear Louis’ voice but can’t make out the words he’s saying—from his tone, he’s ripping the guard who’s at their door a new one.          

            Harry stirs softly beside him and then sits up, eyes wild with sleep and fear. “Whusgoinon?” His voice is slurred with exhaustion but Liam knows that he’s feeling the same knot of anxiety that Liam is carrying in his own stomach.

            “Something’s going on outside.” He jerks his head towards the door. “Sounds like Louis’ goin’ off.”

            “—because I don’t understand what part of _orders from Azoff_ you don’t understand!” Louis shouts loud enough for them to make it. “Stand the fuck aside!”

            Liam gets up and presses his ear to the door just in time to catch the guard’s next words: “Look, Azoff told us that we’re not to let them out under any conditions. It’s not that I don’t believe you, mate, it’s just that I have my orders and until they change, I can’t do anything about it.”

            “Well, consider your orders changed,” Louis spits. “I’m going in there and I’m getting them. If you’d like to stop me, you’re welcome to try.”

            “There’s two of us and one of you, Tommo,” another voice says wearily; Liam guesses it must be the other guard. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

            “I need to get them out of there.” Liam can almost hear Louis tilting his chin up stubbornly and crossing his arms. “It’s not safe for them. Do you really want the loss of the rebellions two most valuable prisoners on your head?”

            There’s a long pause. Liam can hear his own heart beating wildly.

            “Okay,” the first guard says. “You can take the duke, because Azoff only made specifications about His Highness. The prince has to stay, though, until you come with a written order or something. You understand, right? We have to do our job.”

            “Fine,” Louis says, sounding more bitter than grateful. “Open the fuckin’ door, then.”

            Liam scrambles back from the door just as it swings open. Louis strides in, a gun holstered at his waist and another in his hand.

            “Rise and shine, royal boys,” he says loudly. “You and I are going on a field trip, Your Grace.” He lowers his voice and adds, “The Circle is attacking us. They’re trying to force us to hand Liam over. And we’re losing, which means that if Azoff doesn’t cave, someone else will soon, and you’ll be handed over without his authority. So we’re gonna try and get you out of here.” Resuming his loud voice, he says, “Pack for a sleepover, Prince Charming. Who knows if we’ll be back.”

            “M’not a prince,” Harry grumbles, playing along admirably. “Who says you’re telling the truth, anyway? That could be the crown attacking us. We could be almost rescued by now.”

            “This says I’m telling the truth,” Louis says flatly, pointing the gun at Harry’s temple. “Pack or die, pretty boy.” He winks almost imperceptibly and drops his voice again. “They’re not letting me take you, Payno, and I’m not going to be able to make the trip back once I get Haz out of here. So either I’ll get someone to pull Zayn out of the fight and send him over, or Niall will come pick you up a bit later, because he’s driving over here right now. Keep your chin up, yeah? We’ll get you out of here somehow.”

            Liam nods, fear burning in his stomach in a way he hasn’t felt it in a long time. “I’ll see you later, Harry. Be brave.” He mouths _thank you_ at Louis, who nods.

            “You too, Liam,” Harry says. He’s pale with fear but his voice doesn’t shake, and Liam feels a burst of pride in him.

            They walk out of the door side by side, leaving Liam sitting alone again on the floor. All he can do now is wait for either death or salvation.

***

            Liam spends the next two hours with his ear against the door of his cell, listening desperately for news of any kind. The gunshots and shouting get closer, but the guards don’t say much to each other, so he’s assuming they’re prepared if the Circle gets through and shows up to take him. He doesn’t hear anyone else come to try and pick him up, so either Niall isn’t here yet and Zayn couldn’t get away from the fight against the Circle, or they both forgot or abandoned him.

            Or they’re both dead.

            It’s quite possibly the worst two hours of his life.

            The sun is just starting to slip a rosy sliver of light over the horizon when he finally hears something from the guards:

            “This is bullshit, man.”

            “You’re telling me.”

            “We’re risking our lives to protect him? What’s he ever done for us?”

            “Fuck, I know. Did you get Mark’s text? Those bastards have breached the inner hold. Which means that they could show up at any goddamn minute, and you can count on the fact that there’ll be more of them than us.”         

            “I mean . . .”

            “What?”

            “He’s going to get taken either way, then, right? Regardless of whether or not we’re here? If there’s that many of them, I mean. The only difference would be that we die first if we’re here.”

            There’s a pause that feels like a million years to Liam.

            “Are you saying we should leave?”

            “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Dunno about you, mate, but I have a girl and best friend and a dog. Me and my bird are going to get married this summer. I don’t wanna die like this, protecting some bloke that’s done nothing but fuck over the whole country.”

            “Fuck, you’re right.”

            Liam clenches his fists and squeezes his eyes shut. He is going to be left here, locked in a room he can’t escape, abandoned and forgotten. He is going to be killed in this room, hopefully quickly, most likely without ceremony. He pictures himself slumped on the concrete floor, his blood soaking through to the hungry earth. For a moment it’s all he can see.

            “Should we tell him we’re going?”

            “Nah. He’ll know soon enough when they show up.”

            The two of them share a brief laugh, and Liam feels a surge of hatred for them.

            “All right, what’s the faster way out of here, then?”

            Liam hears footsteps, and then their voices fade away down the hallway.

            He is well and truly alone.

            _I have to get out of here_ , he thinks, and stands up to survey the door. It’s solid and unbreakable—he knows because he’s tested it a hundred times—and throwing himself up against would only make noise that would be the equivalent of shouting “THIS IS THE CELL WHERE THE BLOKE YOU WANT TO KILL IS” out loud for the Circle. So the door is a no go. He needs to find another way out.

            The window is really the only other option, unless he suddenly develops the super-strength necessary to break through the concrete walls, and even with everything he’s heard about people getting superhuman adrenaline rushes in times of peril, he thinks that’s unlikely. He walks over to inspect it. Harry had gotten it open yesterday . . .

            A few minutes of shoving and pushing and swearing later, he thinks he can say with confidence that he won’t get it open any further than the three-quarters of an inch Harry had forced it open yesterday. So while that’s great if he needs to take a piss or stick his fingers out to get some fresh air, it doesn’t do much in terms of escape. The only option he really has is to break it.

            He really, really doesn’t want to do that, because it’ll be loud and obvious and someone might hear him. And if he cuts an artery on the glass—which is all too likely—he’ll bleed out in minutes, and while it might be satisfying to know that he took away the pleasure of killing him from the Circle, he’s not in the business of purposefully trying to get killed. Quite the opposite, in fact. But the thing is that it doesn’t really matter if he wants to, because he has to.

            Maybe the most useful thing he’s learned on this whole journey is that sometimes, you have to do ugly things to survive.

            He sets his legs apart in a fighting stance, raises his fists, and—

            The door bursts open and he whirls around, fists still raised even though they won’t be much good against a gun.

            It’s Zayn.

            “Thank fucking God,” Liam says, striding forward to pull Zayn into a hug. “I thought you’d never come.”

            Zayn weakly returns his embrace, and it’s only when Liam pulls back that he sees Zayn is haggard and exhausted with a long scrape on his forehead and a black eye. There’s a gun in each hand and another one at his belt; Liam realizes with a jolt that the Circle is really, truly winning.

            “We’ve got to go,” Zayn says grimly. “They’re not even five minutes from here. Almost everyone else ran or got killed.”

            “Then let’s go,” Liam says instantly, and they step out of the cell together. He’d always thought a moment like this would be one of triumph, not fear.

            “Here,” Zayn says, pressing a gun into Liam’s hand. “Just in case.”

            “I don’t know how to use one of these.”

            “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Zayn groans, snatching it back. “Never mind, then. Useless royals.” It’s said without malice, though, so Liam only rolls his eyes in response.

            They walk for about two minutes in peace, and then a flurry of gunshots breaks out behind them; Zayn swears and pulls him around the nearest corner.

            “Closer than I thought,” he mutters. “Try to be quiet—”

            “Who is it?” a vaguely familiar voice shouts, and Zayn just shakes his head at Liam, warning him not to respond.

            A lone pair of footsteps gets closer, and then the voice calls out again, “I know there’s someone down there. State your name and business, or I’ll open fire.”

            Zayn looks like he’s swallowing something bitter. “It’s Zayn. Don’t shoot.”

            It dawns on Liam that it’s Michael’s voice they’re hearing. He shudders, feeling a fresh wave of fear run through him like an electric shock at the thought of his last encounter with Michael, the way the boy’s face had been empty and eager in his thirst for revenge.

            “Zayn? Who do you have—” the boy rounds the corner and stops short. “ _Him_?”

            “Don’t you dare shoot—”

            But he doesn’t have time to finish his sentence, because Michael is already screaming.

            “The prince is down here! I found the prince! Get down here, I found—”

            He collapses backwards, cut off by the neat bloody hole that’s embedded itself into his temple like a period at the end of his sentence.

            “Goddamn it,” Zayn says softly. “I did not want to have to do that.”

            “It was us or him,” Liam says, but the words feel wooden in his mouth, and he can feel his bile rising at the sight of the body. “You had to.”

            “I know.” Zayn stares down at Michael for a moment longer—Liam is once again struck at how young the boy had been—and then blinks hard and looks away. “God, I hate this. I fucking—” He stops and shakes his head. “Let’s go.”

            There would be time, Liam realizes, for Zayn to mourn and be angry with himself later. Right now they have to keep moving. Right now they have to make sure they won’t be next.

            _Sometimes, you have to do ugly things to survive_.

            They’re running now, Liam a few steps behind Zayn as the other man turns corners and races down corridors without hesitating. Despite all the shortcuts they take and doors they lock behind them, the footsteps and shouting behind them keeps getting louder and louder. It feels like one of the nightmares Liam’s had about trying to outrun an unnamed terror behind him with the knowledge that it’s steadily gaining ground on him until it’s snapping at his heels and he wakes up—

            “Okay.” Zayn says, coming to a full stop as he locks another door. “It’s another right at the end of this hallway, then a left at the end of that one, and then three flights of stairs going up and two more rights.”

            “We’re never going to make it,” Liam says, feeling his blood turn to ice. “They’re too fast.”

            “Exactly,” Zayn says. “So you better get going.”

            “What do you—oh my god,” he says as Zayn begins checking his ammo without turning around to keep running. “Zayn. No.”

            “Zayn, yes,” Zayn says calmly. “You think either of us is going to make it out of here if we both go? They’re literally gaining on us as we speak. Get going.”

            “I can’t leave you here.”

            “You can. I’ll be fine.”

            “You’re going to die,” Liam says hollowly. “And you know it.”

            Zayn inhales and then exhales slowly before turning around. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at Liam with his impassive golden eyes and waits. Waits for Liam to turn away and leave him.

            “Why can’t I stay?” Liam asks, tilting up his chin. “If only one of us can get out, why is it me?”

            “Because you’re the only goddamn person who can fix this mess,” Zayn says. “I can’t. You’re more important—and don’t say you’re not, because in the grander scheme of things, you are.” He smiles lopsidedly. “Nothing personal, remember? This is a political move. Get moving, Your Highness.”

            “Liam,” Liam says. “I won’t let you do this.”

            “Sure you will. To die for king and country is the greatest honor a man can have, yeah?”

            “I’m not the bloody king,” Liam says tightly. There’s a painful lump in his throat. “I might never be the king.”

            “Yeah, well, I’m betting on you. And your odds are zero if I don’t do this. I want to, Liam. I’m telling you to go; you’re not leaving me.”

            “You don’t want to die.”

“Everybody wants to save the world, but no one wants to die,” Zayn says with a shrug.

            “I know that’s a My Chemical Romance lyric, Zayn.”

            Zayn flings him a sharp smile over one shoulder. “Whatever. It’s a good song.”

            “You don’t want to die,” Liam repeats, because he can’t understand why Zayn is doing this.

            There’s a beat of silence like Zayn’s trying to come up with another smart-arse response, and then: “No,” Zayn says, his voice quavering for the first time, and Liam suddenly sees a great and raw terror in his eyes, the most basic and animalistic fear a man can have: that he will die alone, without comfort or mercy, and that there will be no one to mourn or bury or remember him. And that this is all very close to being realized, so close that he can smell it coming for him. “But I always did need something worth dying for.” He smiles again, but it’s an even more pathetic excuse than the last. “Think I found it.”

            “Maybe they’ll let you live,” Liam says desperately.

            Zayn snorts. “Trust me, if there’s any chance they’re going to take me alive, I’ll—” He makes a gun out of his first two fingers and points it at his head. It’s a strangely childish gesture given the threat of the three real guns he carries. “Either I get out or they kill me. I’m not signing up for whatever fucked up shit they have in store for me.”

            “Zayn—”

            A shout rings out down the hallway on the other side of the door; Zayn swears in Urdu and turns back to face it “You better go.”

            “I’m not leaving you. I’ll stay here until you leave with me.”

            Zayn sighs again, even more deeply, and trains a gun on Liam’s head without even turning around. “God fucking dammit, Liam, just go. Don’t think I won’t. Because if you’re not leaving, the death I’ll give you is a hell of a lot more pleasant than the one they will.”

            “Zayn—“

            “Don’t,” Zayn says. “If you were going to thank me or some shit, don’t. I’m doing what’s right, okay? That’s all. Just—give Harry and Niall my best, yeah? And tell Louis that I love him. And that I’m proud to know them all.”

            “Yeah.” Liam’s voice is worn to a thread. “I will.”

            “And proud to know you, too, Liam,” Zayn adds softly. “I’m gonna be okay, you know that, right? Don’t worry about me.”

            “I—”

            The shouting gets louder, and a bullet breaks through the door and ricochets off the opposite wall.

            “Go,” Zayn says.

            “Zayn—” And he can’t leave Zayn like this, with only the terrible fear of death for company and only the merciless Circle members to mourn him. “ _Zayn_ —”

            “Liam,” Zayn says gently. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay. Go.”

            His hands are shaking but his voice is steady. _Zayn could have a gun pointed between his eyes and still look serene. It’s just his way of not letting people see what he’s thinking._ But Liam knows—he’s seen that terror, and he knows that this is much harder than Zayn is letting on. That Zayn doesn’t want to let go of life this early.

            And that, more than anything, tells him that Zayn wouldn’t be doing this if there was any other way.

            He takes two steps. Three steps. Gets a few meters away, and then turns back. Zayn’s slender silhouette is relaxed and easy in front of the door. His gun is raised warily and his shoulders are a bit tense, but what strikes Liam the most is that he is alone. He is alone and human and fragile and there will be bullets that find him and tear him apart, and no one will be here to help him.

            He strides back and seizes Zayn by the shoulders and presses his mouth to Zayn’s, deliberately and softly and with the full knowledge of what he’s doing. Zayn tastes like blood and despair and the soft smile that tugs on his lips where they meet Liam’s, and Liam wishes that he could bottle this one moment of beauty amidst all the ugliness and keep it for the rest of his life. Zayn tastes like a first kiss that could and should have happened so much differently, but one that Liam had to have anyway. And he’s not really sure why—maybe because his words have finally run out and he doesn’t know how else to say goodbye, maybe because there’s something between them that will never be fully realized now, maybe because he just doesn’t want Zayn to feel so goddamn alone now, in his final moments.

            But when Zayn pulls back and whispers, “What the hell was that for?” all he says is,

            “Because we’re going to see each other again.”

            And then he turns and walks away, making sure to follow the directions Zayn gave him, and emerges into the beautiful sunrise and a world which does not know Zayn Malik will soon be dead, where Niall is waiting in a car for them. No one follows him, but when he thinks at what cost that safety comes at, he climbs into Niall's car, and just says, “Drive” before breaking down into the most painful tears he’s ever cried. Niall doesn’t ask where Zayn is--he just seems to know, somehow, because he whispers, "Fuck, I liked that kid," and starts to drive, blinking hard. Liam watches the sun come up and the sky turn red as his heart turns to lead and his resolve turns to steel, and swears that this will not have been in vain. That he will make this better somehow. That he is going to succeed.

And all the while, as the gunshots start and then keep going, he does not stop, and he does not look back.

 

 

END OF PART ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okAY LISTEN before you yell at me just remember that a) the first three hundred times i wrote that last scene it was actually a hell of a lot sadder, b) there's still at least half the fic left so just...use common sense and c) this was originally where i was planning to go on a two week hiatus. aren't yall glad i didn't decide to do that? 
> 
> that being said, i totally understand if you want to yell at me. don't forget to pick up a pitchfork and a torch before you go; they're complimentary. 
> 
> oh, and one more thing! remember when i said i would eventually write some Zayn POV stuff?? Well, if any of you have a scene from this fic that you'd like me to write from Zayn's perspective, come and let me know which scene you want on [tumblr](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com), and i will publish the rewrite on there (even though i still have four prompts from months and months ago that i need to write). only if that's something you guys are interested in, of course! just give me shout :D
> 
> that is all for this week, guys! I will see you all next Saturday!
> 
> EDIT 4/25/16: i have since received some lovely prompts for Zayn's POV scene rewrites and have started working on them; if you're interested in reading them, you can find them [here](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com/tagged/vlvpovswitch)


	14. Part Two: The Old King is Dead, Long Live the King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellooo friends!! the evil queen is back bearing more pain. It was my birthday this week, and school is going to be a BITCH these next two weeks until I'm done with AP testing, so I didn't have much time and consequently this chapter is pretty short, but it packs a pretty good angsty punch, i think. 
> 
> anyway, i'm gonna stop talking and let y'all read.

_“We’re never going to make it,” Liam says, feeling his blood turn to ice. “They’re too fast.”_

_“Exactly,” Zayn says. “So you better get going.”_

_“What do you—oh my god,” he says as Zayn begins checking his ammo without turning around to keep running. “Zayn. No.”_

_“Zayn, yes,” Zayn says calmly. “You think either of us is going to make it out of here if we both go? They’re literally gaining on us as we speak. Get going.”_

_“I can’t leave you here.”_

_“You can. I’ll be fine.”_

_“You’re going to die,” Liam says hollowly. “And you know it.”_

_Zayn inhales and then exhales slowly before turning around. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at Liam with his impassive golden eyes and waits. Waits for Liam to turn away and leave him._

_“Why can’t I stay?” Liam asks, tilting up his chin. “If only one of us can get out, why is it me?”_

_“Because you’re the only goddamn person who can fix this mess,” Zayn says. “I can’t. You’re more important—and don’t say you’re not, because in the grander scheme of things, you are.” He smiles lopsidedly. “Nothing personal, remember? This is a political move. Get moving, Your Highness.”_

_“Liam,” Liam says. “I won’t let you do this.”_

_“Sure you will. To die for king and country is the greatest honor a man can have, yeah?”_

_“I’m not the bloody king,” Liam says tightly. There’s a painful lump in his throat. “I might never be the king.”_

_“Yeah, well, I’m betting on you. And your odds are zero if I don’t do this. I want to, Liam. I’m telling you to go; you’re not leaving me.”_

_“You don’t want to die.”_

_“Everybody wants to save the world, but no one wants to die,” Zayn says with a shrug._

_“I know that’s a My Chemical Romance lyric, Zayn.”_

_Zayn flings him a sharp smile over one shoulder. “Whatever. It’s a good song.”_

_“You don’t want to die,” Liam repeats, because he can’t understand why Zayn is doing this._

_There’s a beat of silence like Zayn’s trying to come up with another smart-arse response, and then: “No,” Zayn says, his voice quavering for the first time, and Liam suddenly sees a great and raw terror in his eyes, the most basic and animalistic fear a man can have: that he will die alone, without comfort or mercy, and that there will be no one to mourn or bury or remember him. And that this is all very close to being realized, so close that he can smell it coming for him. “But I always did need something worth dying for.” He smiles again, but it’s an even more pathetic excuse than the last. “Think I found it.”_

***

            Liam wakes up like he usually does—abruptly and gasping for air. It takes him several long seconds—minutes—hours—to realize that he is not still in the claustrophobic hallway where Zayn died and instead in the huge and airy king’s chambers of Buckingham Palace. Even then, he has to draw in fifteen slow breaths just to work up the courage examine his nightmare, to force himself to think back on the moment his mind had dredged up and pick it apart until it doesn’t hurt anymore.

            He doesn’t want it to stop hurting.

            This is the price he pays for a crown and throne and a country which has been peaceful for an entire year: three best friends when there should have been four, a mind that won’t let him sleep at night, and a terrible wound he carries in his chest that refuses to close. Sometimes, he can’t believe so much peace and widespread good could be bought with the life of one skinny young man, but—

            If he thinks about Zayn, he’ll cry. It’s been a year and a half now, but he’ll cry.

            He knows it wasn’t just Zayn that died for this, but sometimes it feels that way. After Zayn had bought him the few precious minutes he’d needed to get out of the rebel base, he’d spent five months campaigning and garnering support, and the next month staging a relatively bloodless coup that was mainly facilitated by the common people, who were more than ready to welcome someone new to the throne. Azoff had reluctantly taken a place in his cabinet, where Niall keeps a close eye on him, Simon is imprisoned in a small country manor outside of London, where he’ll stay until Liam works up the courage to publicly try him, and the Circle has been largely disbanded, with most of its ringleaders captured or dead. Yes, there are still a few bases that needed raiding, but for the most part it’s been a calm transition of power.

            In his most unkingly and human moments, he knows he would burn the whole thing down to have Zayn back. Take back every success if it meant he could get Zayn’s heart beating again. Tear down mountains to see his sharp and shining smile one more time.

            The worst thing, perhaps, had been telling Louis.

            The other man hadn’t believed him: _it’s not a funny joke, Liam, where is he,_ which was terrible and pitiful to see. And then he’d believed him, which was even worse.

            Maybe it’d been something about Liam’s hollow eyes, or Niall’s unflinching but tear-filled gaze, but he’d turned away abruptly and let out a single hoarse sob. It was the sound of every nightmare Louis had ever had becoming true, and it was the most haunting thing Liam had ever heard.

            Then Louis had stormed out of the car and onto the side of the highway and screamed every foul and accusing name he could think of up at the sky—as if Zayn’s body, somehow, could hear him from miles away—including but not limited to: _fucker, cunt, dickshit, fuckhead, arsehole, dickhead, motherfucker, dipshit, best friend, brother, how could you leave me like this, I love you, I love you, I love you._

            It was a fitting and heart-breaking eulogy.

            Liam would never tell Louis this, but sometimes he dreams about that moment instead; that moment, and the one right after where Louis had fallen to his knees on the muddy earth and sobbed like the world was cracking to pieces in his chest. It had been terrible, and it had been paralyzing, and it had been his fault.

            It’s still his fault.

            Liam forces his mind away from Zayn—although the topic still remains there, bleeding and raw under the lid of the box he shoves it into—and swings his feet out of bed. If he can’t sleep, he may as well go to the gym; get some exercise done before the grueling day really sets in.

            This is how a wound heals: you force it to. Liam can’t remember the first time he woke up without crying, the first time he could look Louis in the eyes again, or the first time he could breathe without actively feeling the leaden weight of guilt on his chest, but he does remember the first time Louis had made a wry comment that Zayn would have been proud of, and they all smiled instead of looking away; and the first time he made a bad pun that would have made Zayn groan, and they all groaned for him; and the first time they all looked up at the stars one night, and Louis whispered, “He would have loved this.” Every time they make themselves live through another day without giving up under the burden of their grief, it gets marginally easier. Some days, it’s hard to remember they were ever a five-legged creature, that now they are crippled, missing the fifth point of brilliance on their star.

            Some days, like today, it’s hard to forget.

            Harry is in the gym when he walks in, already on his yoga mat with one leg stretched gracefully behind him and an expression of peace on his face. None of this comes as a surprise to Liam, so he just nods his thanks at his guard for walking him into the gym and starts stretching beside his friend, the silence between shared as comfortably as it had once been almost two years ago now, before any of this had happened.

            He wonders if Zayn would be dead if they’d never met.

            “You know,” Harry says, seeming to sense the sudden death of the silence’s peacefulness, “I keep trying to get Louis out of bed early enough to come join us, but I swear he’s more sloth than man. He won’t get out of bed for anything greater than a political emergency.”

            “I don’t blame him,” Liam says. “All those years we had it easy working out here, he was running around the country trying to fix this. Man’s deserves his rest.”

            Harry laughs breathlessly as he transitions poses; Liam’s fairly sure it’s against the rules of yoga to be talking while you practice, but none of them got where they are now by following the rules. “True enough. I was going to invite Niall, too, but apparently he’s already eaten breakfast and started up shop. God knows what he does this early.”

            “Probably not even God knows. Niall’s a mysterious man.”

            It’s a tired-out script that neither of them need to recite anymore, given the fact they have the some version of the same conversation every morning they’re both in the gym, but it comforts them in the way that sleep no longer does: for a moment, they can forget. Everything.

            In the months since Liam’s coronation, Louis’ been knighted, Harry’s expanded his dukedom, and Niall has become head of the crown’s intelligence, a role that has spawned far too many _Horan. Niall Horan_ jokes for them to be strictly funny anymore. All three of them are on Liam’s cabinet and work far harder than they need to in order to make sure everything is running smoothly. In Liam’s mind, they deserve a break. In theirs, someone has to make sure the common people are still happy, and it’s sure as hell not going to be Azoff. They’re not wrong. Still, Liam wishes they’d let themselves rest sometimes.

            “I, for one,” Liam continues, even though he’s supposed to let Harry have the next line, “cannot wait to see what miracle he pulls up next. He’s been particularly mysterious lately, hasn’t he?”

            Harry shrugs. Liam knows him well enough to realize that his expression is one of calculated blankness, meaning that whatever Niall is up to, Harry is in on it. This is both unexpected and intriguing enough to pull him out of the unhappy daze he’s been in since waking up.

            “I guess he’ll tell us when he’s ready,” Harry says. “It could be nothing, yeah?”

            “With Niall, it’s never nothing.”

            Harry just shrugs again and then promptly transitions to a pose in which Liam cannot see his face.

            _Interesting_ , Liam thinks. He makes a mental note to bring it up again later, and maybe see if Louis’ in on it too. There’s no point in talking to Niall—the Irish man will take his secrets to the grave, and Liam’s long since just decided to accept it.

            The comfortable silence reinstates itself until the end of their workout, when Harry blurts, “I dreamed about him last night.”

            Liam freezes in the middle of the act of toweling off his hair. He glances at the guard that stands in the doorway of the locker room, but the man has his eyes professionally trained outside the room, and his ears politely trained away from their conversation.

            “Me too,” he confesses. “Almost every night. Just—reliving the last time I talked to him.”

            “I dream about his body,” Harry says flatly. “About where it is. About how no one knows. About what he must look like by now. He—” Harry draws in a small, pained breath. “He was so beautiful, and now he must be—”

            “Don’t.” The whole thing is unbearable—the thought of Zayn’s body decaying into anonymity, the casual way Harry calls Zayn beautiful when that same thought always seemed secret and private to Liam, the depressing knowledge that Liam is not the only one who’s haunted by Zayn’s death at night.

            “Sorry.” Harry looks away. “It’s getting easier. Not, like, that it hurts any less, but just—I think about it less. It’s easier to ignore, because I’m used to it.”

            That’s exactly what it is, but Liam doesn’t want to say anything, doesn’t think he could. Instead he just nods and briskly finishes toweling off his hair. After a long moment and a lot of concentration, he manages to steadily say, “We owe it to everyone to keep it together. So that’s what I’m trying to do.”

            “Exactly,” Harry says.

            As they walk out of the locker room, royal façade firmly in place, the silence is no longer quite so comfortable. Instead, it becomes a scar that stretches over their mutual wound, and throbs, and throbs, and throbs.

***

            Budget council meetings are the worst. The premise of them is that everyone wants more money than they have, no matter if they need it or not, and so somewhere along the line someone decided that it was a good idea to put every official who wants more money for their program into one room, and have Liam try to stave them off all at once.

            It’s not a very good premise.

            “We can’t put any more money into the private jets for nobles program, I’m sorry,” he says for what feels like the ten thousandth time. “We have a few programs that have priority over that—food stamps, for example. Same thing goes for your nanobot research, Duke Orlington. We’ve got to cut down on the luxury items so we can make more money for agriculture development.”

            “The Americans have a nanobot program,” Orlington sniffs self-righteously, and Liam nearly snaps then and there.

            “I don’t care what the Americans have right now, Your Grace,” he says in the calmest tone he can manage. “I only care about the English need. We can worry about trying to keep up with international technology later, when we’re not dealing with the tail end of the biggest economic and social crisis England has seen in centuries. Understood?”

            “Quite,” Orlington says, but he doesn’t look happy with it. Maybe Liam will have to start checking his tea for arsenic. Again.

            “Permission for two million additional pounds to be channeled into the anti-Circle effort,” Niall says.

            “Seconded,” Harry says instantly, and Liam doesn’t miss the fleeting look that passes between Niall and him.

            “Thirded,” Louis says, which is incorrect Council etiquette because motions don’t need a third vote to be considered, but Liam suspects he knows this and doubts he cares. He also doubts that Louis is in on whatever Harry and Niall are up to, because there is no fleeting look exchanged this time. Louis would just like to kill every former and present Circle member on the planet.

            “You’ve already got plenty of money to work with, considering the Circle is on its last legs,” Liam says. “We’ve only got—what, thirteen bases left to raid? Surely you can make do with the money you have.”

            Niall is undeterred. “The last thirteen bases are suspected to hold larger stores of technology, information, and possibly prisoners, none of which we would want to harm in a shoot-out raid like the one’s we’ve been conducting lately. It’s going to take more men and more sophisticated weapons in order to get in and out without destroying those supplies while also killing or capturing as many Circle members as we can. Plus, we’d like to conduct searches afterward the raids to see if we missed anything.”

            Liam sighs. “I just really hate to be channeling more money into killing people when we could be using it to rebuild the country. We’ve had enough violence.”        

            “If we don’t disband the Circle for good, we won’t have a country to rebuild,” Louis says flatly. “They need to go before we do anything else.”

            “And this extra money isn’t going towards killing people,” Harry jumps in. “This is going towards making sure the raids don’t kill any innocent prisoners. This is going towards recovering valuable resources that could save lives of our citizens. This is not aiding violence, it’s trying to stop it.”

            There’s a respectful silence as Liam stands up and paces by the window, barely reining in the urge to smash his head against the wall. He wishes that he could relegate some of the responsibility to someone else for once in his life.

            “Fine,” he says finally, halting in his tracks and rubbing his temples. “You’ve got your money. This council is adjourned for lunch.”

            It’s only eleven in the morning, but everyone leaps to their feet and quickly files out of the room. The relief is palpable—no one likes doing this.

            “They’re all going to think I gave it to you because you’re my friend,” Liam says, knowing without turning around that Louis, Niall, and Harry have stayed.

            “If they do, they won’t care,” Niall says confidently. “Trust me, the anti-Circle effort is one of the most popular programs across the board. No one wants to see those bastards get away with what they did.”

            Right after Liam had taken the crown, the Circle had gone on a killing rampage to try and force him into abdicating. It had been highly unsuccessful, mainly because the people had loved Liam enough by that point to fight back. That had been the beginning of the end of them, and by this point they’re barely a threat anymore, but the people who lost friends and family in the massacre justifiably want them dead. Since Liam wants them dead too, he’s only too happy to oblige.

            “You’re right.” Liam turns around, and sure enough, they’re standing in a row behind him. Harry and Louis are holding hands. “As always. Lunch, anyone?”

            “Already ordered Chinese up to my room,” Niall says, waggling his phone at Liam. “Want to head over there?”

            “What would we do without you?” Louis wonders, and leads the way back to Niall’s chambers.

***

            There is a secret that Liam carries, one that he’s never told anyone. It sits in his chest and glows, the only piece of happiness in a memory that tears him apart to examine. He is, irrationally, proud of it, proud in a way that allows him to keep it close to him and never show anyone, proud in a way that does require anyone else’s approval.           

            Liam has never told anyone that he kissed Zayn Malik.       

            At first, it was because he wasn’t sure how to go about it: _hey, everyone, you know how our friend just died? Well, before he kicked it I snogged him. I’d been wanting to for a while, so I just went for it while he was getting ready to die for me. No big deal, just thought you should know._ That wasn’t how it had happened at all, of course, but Liam suspects that’s how it would sound. It just didn’t seem like it mattered, like if it did, that it shouldn’t.

            When he’d finally worked up a speech that would make it sound acceptable to everyone else, he’d realized that he didn’t want to tell anyone. It would make everything seem so final, make Zayn seem so dead. The minute this last secret was out, Zayn’s story would be over. There would be nothing more to tell. And maybe, once he told, Liam would finally be able to think about someone else.       

            He doesn’t want to think about someone else.

            So he never tells.

            Sometimes, when he’s aiming to make himself feel particularly bad, he runs that kiss over in his head a million times, trying to remember exactly what Zayn had tasted like, trying to remember the way his hair had felt in Liam’s hands, trying to what Zayn had sounded like when he said the last thing Liam had ever heard from him: _What the hell was that for?_ Liam has spent entire nights trying to figure out if Zayn had wanted it as much as he had, trying to remember if those words had been disgusted or delighted or just confused.

            When he’s sick of driving himself crazy, he thinks about telling someone, but at this point he suspects it wouldn’t matter to anyone but him. It’s on him for kissing a dead man, anyone. Maybe the price of loving someone who’s dead is this: they stay alive in your mind, but you die a little more every day at the thought of not being in theirs.

            It’s not like he’d loved Zayn, anyway.

            But he could have.

            God, he could have.

***

            Everything is so bright that he can’t remember the darkness anymore. He doesn’t know if he’s been in here for days or weeks or years—time doesn’t exist in here. He’s not sure if he exists in here.

            He’s not sure if here even exists.

            The fluorescent lights above him flicker and he flinches, more out of habit than actual alarm. Not for the first time, he dispassionately wonders if he’s actually died, and this is hell. He wouldn’t be surprised.

            Most of the time he doesn’t spend actively being hurt, he spends trying to remember things. What nighttime looked like, what real food tasted like, what not being in a constant state of pain felt like. If he tries with more energy that he should spare on thinking, he can feel the smooth handle of a gun in his hand, the awe that comes with looking at the stars, the caress of the wind on his cheek. He counts to one hundred and says the alphabet in two languages. Remembers what it was like to feel human. Remembers what his voice sounded like when it wasn’t hoarse from screaming. He recalls every lyric to Bohemian Rhapsody, then Empire State of Mind, then Bad Religion. Remembers what it felt like to be curled in the passenger seat of a van, half asleep and trusting that he would wake up the next morning. Remembers what coffee tasted like. What chocolate tasted like. What the last pair of lips that touched his tasted like: tears and guilt and regret.

            Sometimes, alone in the unrelenting brightness, he cries. It doesn’t matter; he’s past the point of pride, when he refused to scream. Now it feels like all he does is cling to his diminishing sanity and try not to die. That is the one satisfaction he will not give them: he will not die. It’s a backwards way of thinking about it, because the longer he stays alive, the more they can hurt him, but he refuses to do it. Because when he does, he will have finally lost the game he’s been playing with them for what feels like eternity. The first one to give up loses. He will not be the first.

            When the door opens, he’s not sure if he has any screams left in him. Very shortly, he realizes he was wrong, and that he still has an infinite supply of screams left, and an infinite amount of pain. When they’re done, he smiles up at them through bloody teeth, and says, “Man, my friends always warned me about the BDSM community, but I never thought they would be this hardcore.”

            They are not amused. But the very last weapon he has is laughter, and he does not hesitate to use it.

            They have many weapons at their disposal, and when he’s done laughing, they do not hesitate to use them.

            When he’s conscious again, he’s alone. And alive.

            This is how he keeps himself alive: hope. Because the moment he gives up that, he will die. They may have his pain and his blood and his weakness, but they do not have his hope, and they never will. Because he knows that somewhere, far, far away from this bright claustrophobic cell where he’s chained and bleeding, there is someone who is looking for him, even if they think they will only find his body. Somewhere, there is someone who will find him alive.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am i aware of shitty i am?? yes i am. but I'm not sorry. 
> 
> if you guys still want Zayn POV drabbles, you can still send them in! I've only written one so far bc of the crazy week i had, but i'd be happy to get more! consider it an apology for the shit I'm putting everyone through. you can find the published drabble (and the ones i'll add) [here](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com/tagged/vlvpovswitch).


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yayayay it's up!! I honestly didn't think i'd have time to update this week, but then i ended up having Friday off school, and so i had time to write!! And then this chapter ended up being really long and I'm really pleased with it, and basically it all worked out really well. 
> 
> quick shoutout to everyone who commented last chapter--people's comments are always wonderful and encouraging and hilarious to read, but sometimes you guys just go above and beyond, and last chapter was definitely one of those times. some of the comments made me blush so hard, y'all. i am so so so so so sososo happy everyone seems to be enjoying the fic so far. 
> 
> this chapter is one of my favorites i've written so far, and i think you guys are really gonna like it too, so get right into it!! no more talking from me until the end.

In a word, Liam is tired. Being a king is—well, exactly what he’d expected. He doesn’t even have a moment to breathe without being overwhelmed by a thousand requests from a thousand different people. Everyone expects him to be able to deal with every problem right away, to find a solution to things that are complicated or unsolvable, to fix everyone else’s problems and still have enough time to sleep at night.

            Most of the time, he’s so tired he’s not sure if he’s even human, and somehow everyone expects him to be superhuman.

            _“Superheroes aren’t supposed to die.”_

            Liam jolts sickeningly, trying to push the memory to the back of his head until he’s done with this meeting. The burden of guilt is too heavy for one person, he thinks helplessly. There’s no way he can carry this around for much longer. The hole is too big, the loss is too great.

            _“Superheroes are supposed beat the bad guys and save everyone.” The glint of light off the wheelchair’s spokes is dim in comparison to the tears shining in the younger boy’s eyes. “He promised not to die.”_

            Yeah, and look at all the fucking good that did him, Liam thinks, trying very hard not to be bitter even though he figures he’s earned the right to. He’s had a long day, he’s tired, and now his omnipresent guilt is coming to haunt him worse than usual.

            _“He_ promised _,” Ahad says desperately. “He_ said _he’d be back. Zayn was one of the good guys. He should have lived.”_

_“I know,” Liam says. “I know.”_

_“He should have lived,” Ahad repeats in a mumble, looking at the ground. Then he takes a deep breath and looks up, squaring his shoulders. “How did he die?”_

_This was the hard part. Liam doesn’t know if he’ll be able to get the words past his mouth, be able to square his shoulders like Ahad had, look into his eyes, and say— “He died for me,” Liam says, the words heavy on his tongue, falling like leaden rain onto the ground between them. “He told me to leave him so I could escape, so he could buy me time.”_

_The words are heavy and terrible and final, and he has never felt worse in his life._

_Ahad swallows. “Was it—was it fast?”_

_“I don’t know,” Liam says. “I hope so.” The worst thing—the very worst thing he could think of was the idea of Zayn almost making it—of Zayn being hurt but not killed, hurt just enough to put him out of commission but not enough to kill quickly and—and then being left there to bleed out with no one to help, and, and, and—_

_“They shot him, didn’t they?”_

_God, Liam hopes so._

_“Yes,” he says. “They shot him.”_

_This seems to give Ahad some sort of grim satisfaction, although Liam couldn’t say why. “He was like my big brother, you know,” he says, and he sounds like he’s trying very hard to cover up the sound of the earth shattering in his voice. “He was so good to us. I don’t think anyone was braver than him in the whole, whole world. No one.” He draws in a deep breath, a short intake and a long slow exhale. “I loved him.”_

_“I know,” Liam repeats, and all he can think of is the thousand adopted siblings Zayn left behind, the ten thousand people who knew and loved him, the hundred thousand who will mourn him and feel his loss like a black hole that’s come down to earth. And he can’t help but wonder if it had been him instead, if maybe that would have been better. If anyone would have noticed or cared._

            “Your Majesty?” There’s an advisor leaning in towards him with an expression of concern on her face. “Are you all right?”

            Liam stiffens, ripping himself back into the present. He’s fine, everything’s fine.

            “I’m fine,” he says. “Everything’s fine.”

            But everyone in the meeting is looking at him like he’s lost his mind—which really isn’t a good thing, given the fact that he’s supposed to be in charge of them all, but at the moment he can’t bring himself to care—and he sighs. Maybe it’ll be for the best anyway.

            “This meeting is adjourned,” he announces. “It’s getting late, so we’ll resume this discussion tomorrow. Is that fine with everyone?”

            The question is merely a formality, as he’s the king and they have to do as he says whether they like it or not, but Liam considers this type of thinking as dangerous, and prefers to stick to common courtesy. Even so, despite the fact that it’s not that late and most people want to finish this business today, there’s a low murmur of assent and the advisors begin to leave the room.

            Just before the woman who’d awoken him from his daze leaves as well, Liam snags her sleeve. “Could you get word to Sir Tomlinson that I’d like to request his presence in my chambers? We have some business to discuss.”

            “Certainly, Your Majesty,” the woman replies, and scurries off.

            _We have some business to discuss_ certainly sounds more impressive than _we’re going to get drunk and talk about our dead mutual friend who we still refer to in present tense half the time_ , Liam ruminates as he begins walking back to his chambers, even if the latter is exactly what they’re going to do. They never mean to end up talking about Zayn, but if they’re drunk and sad enough (which they always are), it sometimes feels like their combined love for him pulls some of his essence out of their souls and into the room with them, so they obligingly get together, drink, and wind up talking about Zayn every two or so weeks when things get too hard to bear. It’s fucking pathetic, but they’re both desperate enough to feel Zayn’s presence one more time that they’re willing to pretend otherwise.

            This is Liam’s life now.

***

            Lesson number one of being a king: it’s easier to get drunk when you’re hungry. Liam feels this is something everyone else in the world realizes when they’re about sixteen, but being the prince doesn’t give you much opportunity to do underage drinking, and so he came to this realization only a few weeks ago, whereupon Louis promptly laughed his head off at Liam’s lightweight arse. (Liam really isn’t that lightweight, he just hadn’t been expecting it to be so sudden, all right?). He’s running on an empty stomach and four hours of sleep today, so he’s expecting—hoping—to get smashed quickly.

            Louis shows up with two bottles of vodka and a case of beer, flops down on Liam’s sofa, and kicks his feet up on Liam’s antique coffee table.

            “I take it today did not treat you kindly?” he asks without preamble. “I’ve got plenty of booze, and we can always order up more.”

            Liam gratefully accepts vodka—it’s peach flavored, he notices with detached distaste—and takes a swig straight from the bottle, shrugging when Louis raises an eyebrow.

            “I’m the king,” he says by way of explanation. “I can do whatever the motherfuck I want.”

            “You’re right as always, Your Majesty,” Louis says, sweeping a mocking bow. Somehow he manages to do this while still sitting down. “What happened, then?”

            “Just the usual shit.” Liam morosely takes another drink. “Dunno how I’ll manage this my whole life. It’s enough to drive anyone crazy.”

            “What, being king?”

            “There’s just—” Liam waves a hand expressively “—so much shit to do.”

            “Enh, you’ll manage.” Louis is unimpressed, which is exactly what Liam loves about him: he refuses to coddle or indulge Liam just because he’s the king. “We’ve all got our burdens.”

            “Mine just happens to be a bit larger than most.”

            Louis snorts and traces a finger down his cheek in mimicry of a tear trail. “Poor privileged rich boy. It’s hard, isn’t it?”      

            “Oh, fuck off. You know it is.”

            “Yeah,” Louis says, his voice softer. “I know.”

            “That’s why you’re here with booze to distract me. I hope you’ve got plenty of jokes ready.”

            “I’m a bloody knight, not the fucking court jester.” This, amazingly enough, is true—Louis and Zayn had both been knighted for their efforts in the rebellion. Zayn’s honor, of course, had been posthumous.

            They sit in silence for a bit after that. For all of Louis’ bluster and production, he’s actually not a bad person to sit in silence with. The air between them is soft with the mutual understanding of what drives them together on nights like this—they have long since run out of words to shape into their grief. Liam tries to think what his sorrow would look like, if you could see it. Probably like an earthquake zone: quiet and unassuming most of the time, but capable of erupting into disaster at the moment when he expects it the least.

            “That’s very fucking poetic,” Louis says with an appreciation that manages to be both sarcastic and sincere.

            Liam frowns. “Did I say that aloud?”

            “You did indeed, my friend. What, did you not mean to?” Louis leans in closer; his breath smells like fire and peaches. “Were you pregaming before I got here? That’s against the rules.”

            “There are no rules.”

            “There are now. Rule number one: no pregaming.”

            “I did not pregame,” Liam says with as much dignity as he has left in him, which is a considerable amount. The one upside to being king is that he seems to have an unlimited supply of dignity with him at all times. “I’m not even drunk.”

            Louis merely smiles and takes another swig of vodka. He drinks it so fast that Liam’s not even sure he feels the burn as it goes down.

            “One of my favorite things about Zayn,” he starts, and Liam feels the familiar eagerness and sorrow and nostalgia settle into his bones, “is the way he gets drunk. Got drunk. He was the mellowest drunk I’ve ever seen—he didn’t even like to dance, for God’s sake. And so while he usually hated to talk to people when he was sober, once you got a little liquor in him, he’d be making new friends left and right. He was a great listener when he was drunk—well, he was a great listener all of the time, but you really wouldn’t guess it if you didn’t know him and he was sober. People love to talk to him. Loved to talk to him. And he was fucking charming if he wanted to be. He could get anyone’s number, no matter the gender, in five seconds flat if he wanted it.” Louis shakes his head. “I’m just fucking rambling, aren’t I?” When Liam shrugs, he takes a long pull from his vodka. “God, I fucking miss him.”

            Grief is not an earthquake, Liam decides. It’s the sight of your own blood—that sudden shock of wrongness and shock combined with a terrible sense of recognition, because this is a scene you have played out before, and will play out again. It’s the knowledge that someday, something could go wrong and you could bleed out, could bleed and bleed until there is nothing left inside of you, and everything goes white and still.

            And yet, it’s hearing these things about Zayn—the tiny tidbits and corners of him that Liam never got to know—that keeps him alive in Liam’s mind. As long as Louis has new information to give him, Zayn remains a living mystery, a story that keeps going and going. As long as Liam does not know everything there is to know, the story will not end, and there will still be a ghost to bring back and marvel at every once in a while. He can’t imagine what it must be like for Loui, who knew Zayn better than anyone on this earth. He wonders how long ago Louis stopped looking for new information to recall.

            And that’s when he realizes he needs to tell.

            “IkissedZayn,” he blurts out all in one breath. He hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to tell someone until now.

            “What now?” Louis looks drunk, half on vodka and half on grief, and wholly unfocused what Liam has to say.

            “I kissed him. Zayn.”

            Louis’ eyebrows shoot up. “He never told me that.”

            Liam swallows. “Yeah, well—it was right before . . .”

            “You kissed a doomed man? That’s . . .” Louis considers. “I mean, depending on how you look at it, either extraordinarily thirsty, or really romantic.”

            “Thanks for your support, Louis,” Liam says drily.

            “Anytime.” Louis stretches, a bit of vodka spilling out of the bottle as he flings out his arms and splattering on his wrist; he licks it off with the delicacy of a cat cleaning itself. “That’s fuckin’ hilarious, though. That you snogged him. It makes sense.”

            “Why’s that?”

            “Well, like I said, people were falling in love with Zayn all the time,” Louis says with a grin. “Like, he’d meet someone for the first damn time and they’d be all over him for two straight weeks trying to get him to reciprocate. I had to deal with so many lovesick fools back in the day. Is there such a thing as chronic sickness resulting from too many heart-eyes? If so, I have it.” His face softens. “He had the hots for you, though; that’s what I really meant. He really liked you, Liam.”

            “He did?” Liam asks. There’s something fragile beating in his chest along with his heart; it’s made out of the terrible, terrible happy-sadness that comes with knowing that you had a good thing before it could really become that good thing. Knowing that it could have been so much more, had it been allowed to blossom.

            “He did,” Louis says. “He was a lovesick fool himself. Why do you think he was always taking you outside and bringing you books? He was trying to be nice, sure, because he is—was—a nice person, but he was also trying to woo you over. The boy was head over heels.”

            “I was afraid I kissed him, and he didn’t want it,” Liam confesses. “I just—did it, and we never h-had the time to talk.”

            “Don’t you dare cry,” Louis says forcefully, and Liam promptly blinks back his tears and swallows hard. “That’s better. I can assure you that he would have been over the moon about it had your kiss happened in any other way. As it was, I think—I think it would have been a good last memory for him to have. One little bit of kindness and hope to cling to.”

            Liam’s irrationally uplifted by Louis’ words, but the true happiness comes from the other man’s expression—Louis has received new news of a friend who’s been a year dead now, and by doing so, he has managed to keep him alive a little longer.

            Grief is a pitch black room, but between them, they have managed to conjure Zayn up until he’s hovering between them, a candle to keep the darkness away.

***

            Liam wakes up with a headache that seems to be on a mission to split his skull in half. Hell, he would split his skull in half himself if he thought it would make the pain a little better. But despite a full fifteen minutes of screwing his face into his pillow to block out the light, swallowing the pain meds some angel placed on his bedside table, and begging God to deliver him from this evil, nothing seems to work, he’s stuck with the consequences of his actions.

            At exactly seven o’clock, someone raps sharply on his door, because neither hell nor high water can prevent people from expecting him to do his job. Liam groans into his pillow one last time, and sits up, heroically fighting the urge to vomit.

            “You know,” he says to his empty bedroom, “I sort of suck.”

            “If it’s any consolation,” Harry says through the closed door, because of course he was the one to wake Liam up, “Louis is laying in my bed doing the exact same thing. I think he might actually be worse than you.”

            Liam considers making a lewd suggestion as to what Harry can do to make Louis feel better, but then decides the satisfaction of doing so would not be worth listening to Harry retaliating with a detailed description of exactly how he’d go about said suggestion.

            They really are the most disgusting couple on the fact of the planet, those two. Liam would like to know how they stand themselves. But to be fair, Harry and Louis’ relationship is probably the only thing that keeps the two of them sane, so Liam tries not to begrudge them their bit of happiness. If he had someone he loved like that, he’d probably be disgusting with them too—but he cuts himself off from any more action in that line of thought before it gets too far. Lately, imagining anything remotely romantic has just made him depressed. And by lately, he means the past year and a half.

            He wonders if feeling emotionally stunted is a common symptom among people who have experienced the death of a crush.

            “Are you okay? You haven’t said anything for a bit too long. You’re not throwing up, are you? I’m coming in to hold your hair back.”

            Harry is probably the only person who has the authority to barge into the king’s chambers without knocking or being announced first, and he does not scrimp on using that privilege.

            “I’m fine,” Liam groans as the door flies open. “I’m not throwing up, I just sort of want to die.”

            “Well, you can’t do that, so you may as well get up and get ready for court. It starts in an hour, you know,” Harry says as if Liam hasn’t been holding court every morning six days a week for a year now.

            “I know.” He rolls over and squints up into the light of the window. “I might throw up on the petitioners, but hey—it won’t be the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

            “Stop that,” Harry says sharply, flinging open the curtains.

            “Stop what?”

            “Feeling sorry for yourself. You aren’t the only person who’s suffering. And—” another curtain is ripped open; Liam winces “—even if you were, you’re also the king, so it’s your job to get your shit and everyone else’s together. Also, you and Louis need to stop drinking like that. It’s dangerous and bad for you and I won’t have it.”

            “It makes things a little easier,” Liam mumbles, fully aware of how pathetic he sounds.

            “I’m aware. But I’m not going to be dating and best friends with two budding alcoholics, so you better shape up. Some of us have healthier coping methods.”

            “Yoga is not as all-healing as you’d like to think, Harry.”

            “I’m not talking about yoga,” Harry says, the color high in his cheeks now. “Just because you gave up on everything but your job eighteen months ago doesn’t mean the rest of us have, Liam.”

            “Are you talking about having sex? I feel like you’re talking about having sex.”

            “No,” Harry says through gritted teeth, “I am not.”

            “I think you are,” Liam says, more to piss him off than anything, but he drops it after that because he doesn’t have the energy to start a real argument.

            There’s a long silence, and then Harry says, “I’ll see you in court, Liam. Don’t be late.”

            He leaves, shutting the door behind him with quiet, dignified finality, leaving Liam to contemplate exactly how pathetic his life has become.

***

            He ends up making it through court. Just barely, though—his head is killing him, and everyone wants so much from him, and he’s beginning to feel like a scam; like everyone thinks he’s knows what he’s doing when he’s really just trying to make it through every day like everyone else. And he’s not entirely sure how much of this is the hangover talking, but it can’t be more than fifty percent, because he always feels like this even when he’s sober.

            In short, Harry is right. Liam should really stop drinking so much.

            So it’s a tough day, but he gets through it because he has to. There are so many things in this world that you think are going to kill you, but don’t. And then you have to figure out what to do the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that. Maybe life is just the process of trying to forget everything bad that has ever happened to you. Maybe eventually, it will work for Liam, and he’ll wake up one day, and things will not be worse, just different.

            That day seems like a long way off.

***

            He doesn’t quite have a concept of time anymore, but he thinks he makes it through the day. Just barely, though—he’s actually fairly sure that he is literally dying, which is a concept both deeply depressing and slightly relieving. He’s sworn that he is _not_ going to die—that is the only rule he’s set for himself—but it’s getting harder and harder every day. He’s realizing that as strong of a force as sheer willpower is, it can’t reduce blood loss, or give him the nutrients he needs, or take away his pain. It can’t make him remember how to feel like a human when he’s been treated like an animal, like an object for so long. He can hardly remember his own name, much less think of himself in terms of it. And as much as he wants to live, dying would make all that so much easier.

            But he hasn’t quite resigned himself to death quite yet, so he screams himself hoarse and grits his teeth and bears the unbearable, because he has no choice. Maybe that’s what life is: living through what you thought you could never live through, and then trying to find a way to deal with that. He’s started to split up time into seconds, because the thought of being alive for any more than a second more is unbearable. So he lives through one, and then another, and then another, until all those seconds of pain and determination accumulate into hope, and he finds the will to do it all over again.

            This, though, may be the lowest point he has yet to reach. He’s on the floor—to be fair, he’s always on the goddamn floor; he hasn’t had the will or the strength to support himself in a while—watching a pool of blood on the floor get bigger and bigger with a detached sort of interest. He’s not sure where exactly he’s bleeding from, because he’s hurt all over for so long that it’s become hard to pinpoint the exact source of a particular injury, but he does know that it’s getting hard to breathe, and his vision is getting blurry and dark, and his stomach is spasming like his body is trying to make him throw up, but there’s nothing left to throw up with. And he can’t really feel his arms or his legs anymore, but he’s fairly sure that they’re still shackled to the concrete floor—as if he could stand up in this condition, let alone try to escape. Not that any of this is unusual, of course, but he normally would have passed out by this point, and quite frankly he’s not appreciating his body’s determination to make him sit this one out. Sure, he has a high pain threshold, but damn, this is quite a lot to ask from anyone. Also, he’s begun to get the feeling that his body isn’t really his body at all, and he’s just watching himself bleed and twitch on the ground from a dizzying height.

            So yeah, he may be dying right now, there’s nothing he can really do about that. He’s just going to have to wait and see.

Honestly, he’d thought he’d finally gotten to rock bottom when this had all started, but somewhere along the line, he’d found a shovel and had somehow dug himself deeper. He suspects that it has something to do with his inability to shut the fuck up, which probably pisses off the people who come in here to make his life a literal living hell—he’s not talking about screaming here, either, because he doubts they mind that. No, he just has a persistence urge to keep making Wade Wilson-esque commentary even when his flesh is sizzling down to the bone. It’s the only thing that makes him feel like even an echo of his former self, and he’s not about to give that up for the sake of a few extra days of life. It’s also a talent he probably learned from Louis.

He tries not to think about Louis too much. Or Liam. Or Niall. Or Harry. He’s afraid that if he does, their memories will get too mixed up in the haze of painbloodfearpain that he’s living through to give him much hope. But because he could definitely use some hope right now, he runs through as many memories as he can. It makes him feel so alive. It makes him feel so human.

And then, the lights flicker. And then they go out.

He can’t see anything—there are no windows in his cells—but he’s never been so grateful for anything in his life. Light is so demanding, so exhausting, so restrictive to his ability to sleep, and it’s all he’s experienced in however long he’s been here. So he soaks up the darkness like it can replace the blood he’s lost, revels in his ability to shut his eyes without the light burning through his lids.

Two seconds later, his eyes fly open because he’s afraid that the reason it’s dark is because he’s died. It’s then that he realizes that no matter how easy it would be to let go, he _does not want to die_. In fact, he refuses to.

Two seconds after that, gunshots start echoing through the locked door.

And what feels like two years of pain and exhaustion and fear that something even worse than this is on its way after that, that very same door flies open.

He can’t see the person who walks in because they’re holding a flashlight that’s blinding him, but he can hear their sharp intake of breath and concludes that he must look pretty damn bad. He opens his mouth to say something—what, he’s not sure—and experiences a mild shock of alarm when all that comes out is a terrible hoarse noise and the taste of blood.

“Sir—I—can you speak?”

_I’m fucking trying to_ , he thinks. But he’s in a lot of pain and he doesn’t want to be anymore, and he also really, really just wants it to be dark again, so all he says is, “Yes.”

Except it comes out much more inarticulate than that, but whatever. The person in his cell gets the message.

“You’re going to be okay now, sir, but we’re going to have to lift you up. Do you think you can handle that?” The person’s voice is polite, almost gentle, which is something Zayn hasn’t experienced in a really long time. There are more people coming into his cell, carrying things—guns, maybe, and he thinks he sees a stretcher—and for some reason he wants to cry.

A second later, the prisoner’s mind catches up to what his body apparently already knew: this is a rescue mission. They have found him.

***

            It’s been a long, hard week, and all Liam wanted to do was get a full night’s sleep, but apparently, he’s being denied that, because there’s someone knocking on his door like a madman, and he really, really doesn’t appreciate it.

            But he’s the king, so he hauls his arse out of bed and goes to answer it, because something serious and terrible could have happened, and he kind of doesn’t want tomorrow’s headline to be “Breaking News: His Majesty King Liam Sleeps Through the Apocalypse.”

            “Your Majesty,” the guard who’s knocking says without even so much as an apology, “Their Graces Dukes Harry and Niall request your urgent presence in the Lesser Courtroom immediately. Something has happened regarding the Circle raids.”

            “Give me one moment,” Liam says. He shuts the door again and hurries to get dressed—yesterday’s rumpled suit, fingers raked through hair, and shoes with no socks. He should really just start sleeping in court clothes from now on.

            “Do you know what happened?” he asks as he follows the guard to the elevator; the sentinels who’d been standing outside his bedroom fall into perfect step behind them.

            “Something with prisoners being brought in,” the guard says. He looks as tired as Liam feels. “They said it was urgent, Your Majesty, I apologize for waking you.”

            Well, Liam appreciates the sentiment, but it’s not going to make him feel any more awake. “Think nothing of it,” he says graciously. “A king’s first duty is to his country, not to his rest.”

            It’s such an obvious party line that Liam himself cringes, but the guard looks appropriately inspired, so it couldn’t have been that bad.

            When they get to the Lesser Courtroom, Harry and Niall are already there, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of someone who’s being held up by two soldiers. They’re talking, their voices are too quiet for Liam to hear, but they both turn around when they hear the door open. Harry, Liam sees to his horror, is silently crying, and Niall looks grim and angry in a way he usually doesn’t.

            “Liam, thank God,” Niall says. “Did you see Louis on your way here?”

            “No,” Liam says suspiciously. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

            “We—” Harry wipes his nose on the back of his hand and then laughs, long and relieved and quiet. Liam hasn’t heard him laugh like that in a long time.

            And then, without any more explanation, they both step aside so Liam can tell who they were talking to, and he understands why they both look so upset: the person can hardly stand up even with two people supporting him; his head is bowed and shorn and his limbs are like sticks. There’s blood and bruising and scars everywhere, and Liam has never seen another human being this abused in his life. If this is what the Circle has been doing to their prisoners, they don’t deserve to be treated like humans, because this—this is appalling and barbaric and frightening in the most visceral sense.

            But then the man raises his head and smiles a sharp, crooked smile that Liam knows better than his own, and Liam looks past the shaved head and devastating injuries, and realizes who he’s looking at, and why Harry had been laughing like that.  

            “Hello, Your Highness,” Zayn says. “I must say kingship suits you.”

            And then to everyone’s horror and alarm, he falls to the floor and does not move.

***

            When Zayn wakes up, he’s in a bed. Also: it’s dark out, he’s in much less pain than he has been for the past year and a half, and he’s not bleeding or dirty. He still feels like he’s sitting outside of his own body, but he feels like that might be more from the fact that he’s hooked up to an IV that surely has some pretty hardcore painkillers than the possibility that he’s dying.

            All of this makes tears well up in his eyes. Sometimes, it’s the small things in life.

            Most of what happened is a blur in his mind—it feels like one moment he was in the Circle prison, and the next in the palace—but he’s not too concerned with trying to remember the details. What’s important is that he’s safe now, he’s not afraid anymore, and he knows that the boys are alive. He’d been so, so afraid that he would find out that after all of that, after everything he gave up, they hadn’t made it. But they had, and everything had worked out, and everyone is alive, and that means that all his suffering hadn’t been for nothing.

            With that thought, he really does start to cry.

            “Sir?” It’s a nurse, a slim, pretty woman with a clipboard and a cautious smile. “Are you all right?”

He nods. It hurts to talk, and it’s hard to get the words from his brain to his mouth, but he manages to get out, “I’m just happy,” a moment later.

Her expression softens. “I’m just going to do a few tests, and then we’ll get a doctor in to see you, all right?”

He nods again, and she walks out of the room.

Not too long after that, he learns that he’s been asleep for nearly a week—they kept him under so they could get all the surgery and tests done without having him be in too much pain. This alarms him only mildly; as much as he’d have liked to been asked beforehand, he probably needed that sleep anyway.

He falls asleep for a while again—apparently a week still isn’t enough to catch up on rest—and when he wakes up, someone’s having a loud conversation outside his room.

“I’m the bloody _king_ ,” Liam says indignantly. “I’ve been waiting a week to see him. And now he’s finally awake and you’re trying to fucking tell me that I can’t go in and make sure he’s okay?”

“I’m sorry, You Majesty, but we have a policy of family only until the patient is a little more stable.”

“I’m his brother,” Louis says in a hiss so poisonous that Zayn can hear it through the closed door. “Are you telling me I don’t count as family?”

“You’re not his biological or officially adopted brother, Sir Tomlinson. I’m afraid you do not count.”

There’s a long silence, during which Zayn amuses himself by imagining the various expressions of fury and outrage that must be present on Louis’ face, and then Liam says, “I’m going in. Don’t try and stop me,” and pushes open the door.

For a year and a half, Zayn lived in perpetual fear that he’d never get to see him again, and maybe because of this, Liam is glowing and radiant; the most beautiful thing Zayn has ever seen. Even though Zayn’s getting really tired of wanting to cry, he finds tears welling up in his eyes yet again at the sight of Liam’s hopeful and awe-stricken smile. But to be fair, Liam looks like he’s about to cry too, so maybe that’s okay.

He clears his throat; it’s still taking a lot of concentration to speak. “Hey.” His voice is hoarse with tears and eighteen months of screaming, but he doesn’t care. Liam is here, and that’s all that matters.

“That is not the correct way to address your king, sir,” the nurse says quietly, like she’s not sure if she should be contributing to the conversation.

“He can address me however the hell he wants,” Liam says, sitting down on the edge of Zayn’s bed. “Zayn, you fucking miracle.”

They stare at each other for a long moment; Liam looks a lot different. His shoulders are broader and his hair is a bit longer and his beard is thicker, but most importantly he carries himself differently now. He carries himself like a king. Like he’s grown into this power he was born for.

“I missed you so goddamn much,” Liam says softly. “Fuck, there aren’t words—” He breaks off and turns away for a moment, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. When he looks back around, his cheeks are shining with tears, and his voice is wrecked. “Can I—can I hug you?”

“You’re the . . . bloody king,” Zayn says, struggling to get the words out around the lump in his throat. “Pretty sure you can . . . do whatever the f-fucking hell . . . y’want.” And then he falls into Liam’s arms like the past year and a half never happened, and he’d never left them in the first place.

They hold each other for what feels like an eternity; Zayn had forgotten what this felt like, for another human being to touch him without meaning harm. He’d forgotten the way Liam’s arms feel around him, the way Liam smells like cinnamon and warmth and expensive soap. He’s crying in earnest again now, they both are, and then someone else’s arms are wrapping around him, and Louis is muttering, “You fucking bastard, you miserable fucker, you miraculous piece of shit, I love you, I love you, I love you,” and then Harry is there too, repeating over and over how glad he is that he’s alive, and then Niall is flinging his arms around them all saying, “We made it, boys, we made it.” Their arms are warm and solid around him; their shoulders are shaking in unison with his own, and he swears he can feel five hearts beating in time with each other, an unashamed proclamation that they are alive, alive, and alive.

Zayn has never been so happy in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ZAYN IS BACK!!!! I'm sure that wasn't a surprise to anyone, but I'm also sure everyone is happy to officially have him back. Sorry for making you suffer like that!! I promise this fic will be slightly less traumatizing from now on. But i hope that you guys liked the way he came back and everything--the next chapter will explain more of the semantics of how he lived. 
> 
> Wish me luck this week! I'm taking my AP tests on Tuesday and Wednesday, so if you happen to think of me on those days, send me some good vibes. I will definitely need them lol. but the next time i talk to you guys, i will be an AP-free woman! which is defs something to celebrate. 
> 
> That's all for this week!! check out my [tumblr](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com) for more of those Zayn POV drabbles, other drabbles, and lots of complaining--hopefully I'll have time to get all of those things done after my exams are over.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohhhh my god you guys this has been the craziest fucking week for me. i wrote this entire chapter today, because i had 0 time to write during the week (which is why I'm updating a little later than usual). but my tests went well, and i lived through the week, and hopefully I'll be less busy in the next few weeks. how is everyone?? did everyone who took APs these past two weeks survive them??
> 
> in case you had the same sort of week as i did, here is a (mainly) happy chapter that involves a lot of hugging and happy crying and backstory and coming to terms with things. I think our boys deserve some happy emotions (as do all of you after me putting everyone through the shredder like that). enjoy!!!!

The doctor eventually comes in and yells at them for being near Zayn; apparently, the doctors don’t know what the injuries have done to Zayn’s immune system, but on the off chance that it’s been weakened, they’re not supposed to be in his room without being sanitized. None of them are very good at following the rules, but they all do have a vested interest in keeping Zayn alive, and none of them want to be responsible for giving him the common cold and accidentally killing him, so they allow themselves to be hastily ushered out without much complaint.

            So now all four of them are standing outside the door of the palace’s hospital wing in silence, wiping their tears and feeling Zayn’s absence in their midst more acutely than ever. Now that he’s not within their sight, it’s hard to believe that they’d had him in their collective arms only moments ago.

            “He looks terrible,” Louis says flatly after a moment. He’s the only one who hadn’t gotten the chance to see Zayn before he collapsed and was carted away to the hospital, so the shock seeing him just now must have been beyond words. Liam can remember the swell of horror and indignation that had risen up in his throat after seeing him the first time.

            “Well, no wonder,” Niall says. “Man was locked in an underground cell for a year and a half, and it’s not like they were treating him with their finest hospitality.”

            “I know.” Lous scuffs the toe of his shoe into the tiled floor. “It shouldn’t have been a year and a half. We should have found him sooner. Why didn’t we find him sooner?”

            Niall shrugs. “Pure bad luck. No one thought he was alive, so no one was looking for him specifically, and so he just happened to be in one of the last bases we raided.”

            “Good thing you asked for that extra money for the last few raids,” Liam says fervently. “Otherwise who knows what would have happened. We might have ended up killing him if we’d done a shoot-out.” Harry and Niall exchange a quick look, and something clicks in Liam’s brain. “Wait—”

            “I received info from one of my sources about three weeks ago that there was a prisoner undergoing high-level interrogation in one of the last thirteen bases,” Niall says swiftly before Liam can work himself up to anger over not being told about their apparent rescue plan. “I wasn’t sure who it was, because no one who’s high enough to get that treatment has been captured lately. So I was running through a list of people who were influential in the revolution who maybe got taken when I remembered that—well, that we never found his body. Zayn’s, I mean. So I started looking into it, and realized we’d need more funding if we wanted to get anyone out alive, and—yeah. We managed to pull him out.”

            “And you didn’t tell any of us that you thought Zayn might be alive? For three whole weeks?” Louis looks like he’s somewhere in between ripping Niall’s head off and bursting into tears; it’s an interesting expression on him. “We thought he was dead, Niall. It was fucking killing us all, and you didn’t think to tell us that he might be alive?”

            “He told me,” Harry says quietly.

Louis rounds on him with a look of betrayed fury. “And _you_ didn’t tell me either?”

“No, we didn’t,” Harry says with the sort of calm reason that won him his title as one of England’s best and brightest new diplomats. “We didn’t tell either of you, because you’re right—it was killing you, and it still would have killed you if you thought he was still alive somewhere. Neither of you would be able to focus on anything else; you would have been eaten up with guilt,  and gotten distracted from everything else trying to get him, and you would have gotten in the way of the mission. And if the prisoner wasn’t actually him, or if he died before we could get to him, or if he got killed during the raid, you would have lost him all over again, and it would have broken you both into a million pieces. We didn’t tell you because we love you both enough to want to spare you more pain, and we love Zayn enough to want to get him out as quickly and efficiently as possible. So don’t be angry, yeah? We did what we thought was right, and it all worked out.”

“No, it didn’t all work out, because my best friend is in there looking like he’s been locked in a bunker and tortured to the brink of death for a year and a half, _which he has_ , and we thought he was dead so we never thought to look for him, and I should have known that he was alive, and I failed him.” Louis clenches his fists. “I should have known he wasn’t dead, I should have felt it somehow, and I didn’t, and—and I failed him.”

“Louis,” Harry says gently, “it’s not your fault.”

“Yes,” Louis says, and his mouth is pinched, and his eyes are shining. “It is. I’m his best friend, I should have been able to know somehow—all those times when everyone else was convinced he’d died on a mission, I always knew he hadn’t because I would have felt it if he was dead, I would have felt something missing, and this time—the one time when it really mattered, I didn’t know.”

“If it’s anyone’s fault, Louis,” Liam says, “it’s mine, all right? I was the one that left him behind like that. I left him to die, and I could have stayed, and I haven’t been able to sleep a full night since thinking about it. It’s my fault, and you shouldn’t blame yourself like that.”

Louis glares at him. “Stop it. We’ve gone over this. You didn’t have a choice, and it’s not like it’s your fault we never went looking for him. You had nothing to do with that.”

“Stop arguing over whose fault it is,” Niall says abruptly. “Y’aren’t helping him by doing that, understand? You lot are makin’ this about you, and it’s not about you. We have to focus on Zayn right now, yeah? It doesn’t matter whose fault it is, or who feels guilty, or who should have known or stayed or done anything at all. We all did what we did, and he still made it, so you lot need to focus on that, and on makin’ sure Zayn makes it now, because he’s still in a shitty condition and he needs all the help he can get. I can’t believe you can see him like that and come out here and still talk about yourselves and how you feel. Just—just focus on what’s important here right now, yeah?”

Everyone falls into silence, avoiding eye contact with each other. Niall is right—Niall is always right—and Liam can feel a hot and electric shame burning in his veins. Zayn is nearly dead on the other side of that door—can hardly speak or move, is barely awake—and that’s all that’s important. Eventually they’ll have the luxury of arguing over the semantics of it, but right how they need to just help keep him alive in any way they can.

“You’re right.” Louis is the first one to say it, but he doesn’t look like Niall has helped alleviate the terrible guilt he’d professed earlier. “We need to focus on him.”

“Of course I’m right,” Niall says forcefully. “And I don’t want any of you to be blaming yourselves, or agonizing over how you should have done things differently, or trying to spin this so you’re the only person at fault. A lot of shit happened, we all could have done things differently—includin’ Zayn—but the majority of what happened was out of our control, and really, if there’s a single person at fault, it’s Azoff, because if he’d let Louis get Liam out of there when the Circle attack began, Zayn wouldn’t have had to do what he did. So the first person I catch moaning over how they’re a terrible person because they didn’t do whatever they think they should have is gettin’ a kick in the nuts. From me. Personally.”

“Yessir, very good sir” Harry says, saluting and snapping his heels together. Louis laughs a little and slides an arm around Harry’s waist fondly, and Harry looks pleased at his approval. Liam suddenly feels a great affection for all three of them, and the next thing he knows, he’s on the floor crying.

“Oh—oh my god,” Harry says, pulling away from Louis and crouching down next to him hurriedly, “Liam, what the fuck. Are you okay?”

Liam nods, wiping his eyes and hiccupping a little. “I’m sorry—I just—I never thought—it’s all so much.”

 “I know, mate,” Niall says, squatting next to Harry and putting an arm around Liam’s shoulders. “Everything’s gonna be okay from here on out, yeah? It’s uphill from here.”

“I know, I just—” He takes a deep, shuddering breath and then breaks down again. “He’s alive? I never thought he could be alive, and he is, and now—what do we do now? He’s alive, and all I want to do is never let him out of my sight again, I want to make sure he never gets hurt again, I—I—” He clenches his fists in his hair, takes a deep breath. Takes another one. Tries to stop breathing so quickly. Tries to calm down, because he’s the goddamn king, and he can’t let anyone see him like this. “He’s alive. What do we do now?”

They’re all looking at him with sympathy, but it’s Louis who gets down next to the rest of them and grabs both of Liam’s hands, his expression as fierce as Liam has ever seen it.

“I’ll tell you what we do,” he says. “We make sure he stays that way.”

***

            “You’re the whitest I’ve ever seen you, you know that?” Louis says. “Almost as white as Niall. Almost.”

            “I literally have not seen daylight in a year and a half,” Zayn says. “Stop trying to drag me for things that aren’t my fault, Louis. I’m not as white as you are.”

            Apparently, his immune system is pretty much okay, and the boys are allowed to sit with him for a little while each day now if they wear masks that cover their nose and mouth. Liam doesn’t make it every day, which Zayn gathers he’s deeply bitter about, but he’s the king, and his first duty is to the country, and all that. He’s here today, though, which is nice, because Zayn always feels better—more grounded and calm—when they’re all with him.

            They are so fucking codependent.

            “Stop talking and put your energy towards getting better, baldy,” Louis says, not without affection. This would normally be accompanied by a fond shove to the shoulder, but Zayn has noticed that they are all so much more careful around him now. It’s like he’s a sun-dried sandcastle, and one touch will make him crumble.

            “Baldy?”

            “Cause you’re fucking bald, Zayn.”

            “Am I?”

            Louis looks disconcerted. “Yeah, you are.”

            Everyone is looking him like he’s crazy, which honestly he probably is at this point, but he reaches up and self-consciously touches the back of his head anyway. It feels like velvet: soft, fuzzy, and very, very short.

            “Oh,” he says. “Well, I remember them shaving my head, but I guess I just never really thought about it.” Everyone is still looking at him in that very careful way, so he rolls his eyes and shrugs. “I’m not losing my memory or going crazy, okay? It’s just that the last time I saw myself in a mirror, it was a year and a half ago in the rebel base when I woke up the day of the Circle attack. So I guess I still think of myself looking like that. I haven’t seen myself since.” He doesn’t say that he honestly doesn’t really remember what he looks like, or that there was a time when he could hardly remember his own name, or that he’s still struggling to recover his sense of self. He’s been a nameless, faceless, barely human _prisoner_ for so long that he’s still remembering how to be _Zayn_.

            “There’s a mirror in the bathroom,” Liam says quietly. “You’re not supposed to stand up, but—” He breaks off and shrugs, like he knows how terrifying it is for Zayn to have lost such an integral part of himself.

            “Yeah, the doctor said I wasn’t supposed to look at myself yet,” Zayn says flippantly. “Something about shock and dysphoria, but I think I’m as traumatized as I’m going to get, so you lot are going to help me stand up and walk over there, because I want to know exactly how bald I really am.”

            The four of them exchange a long look. It’s hard to read their expression over the hospital masks they have over their mouths, but he can tell that they’re hesitant to do as he asks.

            “For God’s sake,” he says impatiently. “I just want to take a dozen steps and look at myself in a fucking mirror. It’s not going to kill me.”

            “Zayn,” Louis says, his voice careful, “You don’t—you don’t look like you used to.”

            “I gathered that. Now help me stand up, or I swear to Jesus Christ I will do it myself, and then you’re going to have to watch me fall down on the floor, and it’s going to be very uncomfortable for all of us.”

            So they help him stand and limp over to the hospital room’s bathroom, and it’s honestly pretty damn painful, but Zayn has never let a little thing like pain stop him from doing what he wants.

            There’s a full-length mirror in the bathroom—which strikes Zayn as a little excessive, but they are in a palace, so whatever—so the first time he sees himself, he gets the full view: bones painfully obvious through his hospital pajamas, scars and half-healed injuries that have split open thanks to his movement, hollowed out cheeks and sunken eyes, as much bandages and stitches and surgical tape as there is skin, a shaved head that shows a sharp, thick scar that starts on his temple and flicks over onto his forehead, and four boys standing around him whose worried, heavy gazes and careful treatment toward him make much more sense now. He looks like a zombie, a skeleton, a fragile and abused corpse. He’s unclear on the details of his old appearance, but he knows that he looks like a different person now.

            He knows now what the doctor meant about shock and dysphoria.

            “Please say something so I know we didn’t do the wrong thing by bringing you over here,” Louis says.

            Zayn puts on his most belligerent smirk—it looks both sharper and more fragile than it used to on this new face—and clears his throat; it still hurts a bit to talk. “Well,” he says finally, “I’d still bang me.”

            Niall lets out a strangled sound in between a cough and a laugh.

            “Still a cocky arsehole, I see,” Louis says. “We’re taking you back to your bed now, baldy.”

            “Can we go back to Knockout? I liked that nickname better.”

            “You’re strangely untraumatized for someone who just saw himself looking like a member of the undead.”

            “Zombies are cool, fuck you.”

Everyone looks deeply unconvinced by his nonchalance.

“I told you, I already reached my trauma limit. Who gives a shit about how I look.”

They remain unconvinced.

“It’s what’s on the inside that counts, you guys.”

“And what does what’s on the inside look like?” Harry asks quietly as they help him get back in bed.

Zayn smiles crookedly, and tries not to think how frightening it must look on his dead face. “Pretty much the same as the outside. Maybe a little more beat up.”

No one says anything, and he doesn’t blame them.

“You realize I’m going to be okay, right?” he says finally. “Like, I know I’m a little fucked up—okay, really fucked up—but I’m tough and I’m gonna pull through it. You got me out of there. I lived through what they did to me. And trust me, they did a lot of shit to me. So if I can live through that, I can live through the aftermath. You’re not going to lose me again, okay?”

Louis abruptly stands up and walks out of the room. The other three watch him go without alarm.

“What the fuck,” Zayn says. “Was it something I said?”

“He doesn’t want you to see him crying,” Harry says. “Since you’ve been gone, we’ve all started to spend approximately forty percent of our days crying. It’s pretty unbelievable.”

“Okay, but why the hell is he crying? I said I’d be _fine_ , not that I’m going to die in forty eight hours.”

“I think it’s just that you said exactly what he needed to hear. He’s happy crying, I think.” Harry sighs and stands up. “Niall, come help me calm him down.”

The two of them walk out together, leaving Liam and Zayn alone together in the hospital room. Zayn is suddenly and acutely reminded of the fact that the last time they’d been alone together for more than five minutes, they’d been kissing. He suspects this is not a very appropriate thought to have, given that Liam is the king now and kissing him is probably illegal or something, and also no one probably wants to be kissing Zayn now, and also everyone, including himself, is so overwhelmed and emotional at the moment that kissing really shouldn’t be important right now.

“Am I allowed to call you Liam still, or do I need to call you Your Highness now that you’re the king?” he asks to make himself stop thinking. “Or Your Majesty. Or whatever the proper title is.”

“It’s still Liam,” Liam says firmly. “What, you think I’ve gotten more stuck up since I’ve become king, or something?”

“Hey, who knows.” Zayn is prevented from saying anything else by a fit of uncontrollable coughing that brings the taste of blood to his mouth; Liam looks appropriately alarmed.

“I’m fine,” Zayn says when he’s done, waving Liam off before he can ask. “Happens all the fuckin’ time.”

Liam makes a brave attempt at a laugh and looks away, blinking hard.

“Please don’t start crying on me.”

“I’m not, I just—it’s so fucking hard to see you like this, Zayn. I—” Liam breaks off, looking pained. “There aren’t words for this, are there? I hate this.”

“Trust me,” Zayn says, “you do not hate it half as much as I do.”

Liam laughs, and Zayn feels irrationally pleased with himself for cheering him up. Apparently, after all this time, after everything that has happened to him and fucked with him and tried to tear him apart, he’s still hung up on Liam. Has been ever since he walked into Liam’s cell that first time, exhausted and reeling from a mission and armed with nothing but the confidence that Liam was a good person who would not hurt him. Has been ever since he brought that first book to the prince he was supposed to hate, and hoped it would make life better for him.

“You know I love you, right?” Liam says softly. “We all love you so much, Zayn. Getting you back was—like I said, innit, no words. We’ve been wrecked this past year. Losing you was the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

There’s something huge and terrible in Zayn’s throat; he can’t swallow properly and his vision is blurry. All he wants to do is _stop crying so much_ , but it’s like the universe is out to make sure his eyes will never be dry again.

“Oh, fuck, I didn’t mean to make you cry,” Liam says. “I’m so sorry, Zayn.”

“Fuck you, I’m not crying,” Zayn says hoarsely and unconvincingly. “I’m refusing to cry. Not again, Jesus Christ.” He blinks rapidly, but instead of clearing the tears, it sends them spilling down his cheeks; he smiles at Liam exasperatedly. “Okay, I swear it’s—it’s h-happy crying.”

“I know,” Liam reassures him. “I know, Zayn.”

“I love you too, you know,” he says, wiping his face. “All of you idiots. Thinking about you—knowing that you’d come for me—it kept me alive in there. Wouldn’t have had anything left to live for without you.”

“Can I hug you?” Liam asks suddenly. Zayn is filled with an immense irritation and fondness.

“You don’t need to ask, Liam.”

“I only hug when it’s consensual,” Liam insists, and leans forward to carefully fold Zayn in his arms. It’s a beautiful reminder that they’re both alive and they made it and they’re okay. Or if not okay, then at least full of the potential to someday be okay, which is more than Zayn has had in a really, really long time.

Before he draws back, Liam pulls aside his hospital mask and presses a gentle kiss to Zayn’s temple, right above where Zayn knows now he has that ugly slash of a scar. Liam lingers there for a fraction of a second, lips warm against Zayn’s skin, and then settles back in his seat, mask back in place so Zayn can’t see his full expression.

“What the hell was that for?” Zayn asks softly, knowing exactly when he said those words last, knowing exactly what is hanging in the air between them. His skin tingles in the place Liam kissed him, and he catches Liam pressing his fingers to his own lips for a split second before the other man replies:

“Because I was right about seeing you again.”

***

            For a terrible moment, Liam is afraid that Zayn is going to say something mocking, because there’s a peculiar expression on his face that Liam can’t quite place, but then Zayn just says, “I don’t believe that was quite how you did it the last time, Your Majesty.”

            “Oh?” Liam says. “And how did I do it then?”

            Zayn smiles that ineffable, charming smile of his, the one that Liam knew he’d cut himself on one day (and he’s fairly sure this is what cutting himself on it feels like), the smile that looks so different and haunting on his ravaged body but which still brings back a ghost of what he used to look like, and leans forward until their mouths are almost brushing, close enough to kiss.

            “I believe,” he whispers, “you did it somewhat like this.”

            And then—then they’re kissing, and it doesn’t matter that it’s been a year and a half, and that Liam’s now a king, and that Zayn’s been unspeakably and unthinkably damaged, because Zayn’s mouth still feels the same against his, still has that same soft smile on his lips when they meet Liam’s. Except that this time, he tastes like hope and miracles and second chances, and Liam knows that he has the vast and unbelievable potential to love this man more than he has loved anyone, that if they make it this time, Liam will give his entire heart and soul to Zayn without a moment’s thought.

            He doesn’t love Zayn like that yet, but he will learn.

            God, he will learn.

***

Liam is a king, and kings don’t let personal business interfere with the business of the country, but Liam also doesn’t think he can be blamed for allowing himself to be happier than usual when dealing with everything that needs to be dealt with this week. He grants a record amount of pardons, gives more money than usual to some of the luxury programs, and is so charming in his interviews that all of the articles published about him this week are positive, which is a first. For the first time in forever, it feels like he’s finally got the luck that’s due to him.

            Zayn is back. Zayn is alive. He has held his hand and hugged his real live body and pressed his lips to his warm and living skin.

            If someone were to listen carefully, Liam’s pretty sure they would hear the sound of his heart singing.

             

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes!!!! more ziam kissing!!!!!!! and this time no one even almost-died, wow. can you believe I'm allowing so much happiness to happen in one chapter?? because i can hardly believe it myself. 
> 
> I'm going to try and get some major writing done this weekend in terms of drabbles and tumblr prompts, so if you wanna see those, click [here](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com) and give me a follow on tumblr. zayn pov prompts are still open as always as well!! you can find the ones i've already written [here](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com/tagged/vlvpovswitch). and a big thank you to everyone who's been commenting and leaving kudos; you guys make my day every time i see that someone left me feedback :D i think that's all! have a good week everyone.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohhh my god sorry I'm uploading at two in the morning you guys--I had one of those weeks where you feel awful and apathetic and like everything is pointless, so i decided to cut myself some slack when writing this weekend, but then i ended up writing a way longer chapter than i had planned, and also falling asleep at my computer, and one thing led to another, and--well, you get the idea. so sorry for the delay!! I hope none of you guys are too angry. 
> 
> quick author's note before i let you dive into this huge chapter: in this chapter, i refer to Niall as the Duke of Tyrone. Niall is of course not actually from Tyrone, but because he needs to be from Northern Ireland for the purposes of this story, that is where I have decided he comes from in this fic. So that's what's up with that. I feel like i had somethign else to talk about, but it's so fuckin late and I'm exhausted so I'm gonna stop talking

There is a list of things Zayn has drawn up for himself that he has decided he is never, ever, ever going to tell anyone about. A sample of the items on the list: the way his fingernails broke and bled as he scratched against the concrete floor in agony, trying desperately to crawl away from the pain; the way red is now his least favorite color because he can no longer look at it without seeing his own blood; the way they would sometimes hold a gun to his head and ask him if he wanted them to put him out of his misery; the way it took every single atom of willpower, every single square inch of defiance, every single stitch of who he used to be to spit in their faces and say no. The way he sometimes sobbed out yes, but was so incoherent in his pain and deliriousness that no one ever heard.

            He does not have a word for what happened to him. He knows there are adjectives for it—horrifying, inhumane, gruesome, tragic, scarring—and he knows the clinical terms, the words the doctors use to describe his injuries and surgeries and damaged, but there is no one singleword that he can use to refer to it in his head. Technically, he knows it was torture; he was taken as a prisoner of war and tortured, but _torture_ is a word both too big and not big enough. On the one hand, it makes what happened sound so huge and official and formal, a crime against humanity, a method of interrogation. What happened was none of those things. What happened was a methodic destruction of everything he knew about himself, and these things do not feel official and formal when they are happening to you. On the other hand, the box of the word _torture_ cannot come even close to holding the true and bloody reality of it. Saying the torture aloud does not sound like a throat bloodied from too much screaming. It does not sound like having your entire self torn from your body and reshaped until you can no longer recognize who you are. Zayn is fluent in two languages, and can speak brokenly in a third, and he knows of no word that could encompass every gory and terrible detail of the last year and a half. Those months are nameless in his mind, and until a language dedicated solely to suffering is invented, they shall remain that way.

            If there is one thing that Zayn is good at, though, it’s shutting his brain off when he doesn’t need it. And he certainly doesn’t need it now, when he can’t even look in a mirror without being yanked back to what happened to him. He needs to be able to shove every single memory into a box, and lock it, and get on with his life. This doesn’t exactly work, because there are still some moments that escape and float around in his head like shards of broken glass, but he’s been pretty good so far at suppressing these too when they threaten to surface.

            But memories insist to be relived one way or another, and honestly, Zayn should know better by now that he is meant to end up anyway but screaming.

            _Blood vivid and familiar in his mouth, ragged fingertips scrabbling for purchase against the floor, a deep hoarse sob forcing itself from his throat as another blow connects with his abused body, the force of the swing flinging him forward so his face smashes against the concrete. He can’t draw air into his lungs anymore; it is thick and claustrophobic with the smell of blood and fear and sweat. He’s retching, choking, trying to scream, but all that will come out of his mouth is a constant stream of pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease—_

_He wants it to stop. He wants someone to make it stop, wants to be wrenched out of the wretched shell of his pain-wracked body, wants to be snuffed out like a candle. Please, God, let there be no afterlife—he cannot fathom the idea of being conscious for eternity. He wants to scattered into enough pieces that none of them will ever feel a thing again._

_“Please,” is all he manages. “Please, please, please—”_

_They do not respond. They so rarely do, and mostly likely they didn’t hear him anyway; his voice is garbled and worn to a thread. No one is listening; no one cares. He is alone._

_It continues, brutally, unceasingly, vindictively, until his mind finally and blessedly separates from his body—there’s a jarring moment when he sees himself from the outside, and marvels at how small and pathetic and fragile he is, and then the blackness envelops him. No embrace has ever been so kind._

            Zayn wakes up shaking. The heart monitor he’s hooked up to is beeping at an alarming rate, which means that someone is probably going to be in here soon, but right now he can’t hear if anyone is coming over the rush of blood in his ears. For a few irrational and terrified moments, he is utterly sure that he is bleeding, but after a quick check he realizes he’s fine, which makes him angry—if he’s fine, why does he feel an apocalyptic panic in his stomach? Why is his chest just as heavy as it was when he was in chains?

            A nurse walks briskly in and checks the heart monitor without saying anything; it’s only after she’s inspected most of the machines he’s hooked up to that she fixes him with a not-unkind gaze and asks, “Was there anything you’re aware of that caused the anomaly I just saw on your charts?”

            “Bad dream,” Zayn sys, disconcerted when his voice comes out sounding normal and not hoarse from screaming.

            She nods. “That’d certainly do it. I’m going to give you something to calm you down a bit, all right? We don’t need you agitated like this right now. You’re spending enough energy just trying to heal up your body.”

            Zayn takes the pills she gives him and doesn’t say that he’s afraid that the most permanent damage has been done in his head, not on his skin. He’s afraid he will never be able to _stop_ being afraid. He is terrified.

            “Also,” the nurse says, “I’m going to write a recommendation on your file that the doctor finds you a therapist. Is that all right with you, sir?”

            He forgets he’s a knight sometimes. Forgets he has a title. Forgets he has a name. “Yeah,” he says quietly. At any other time, he would have protested at the suggestion that he needs a shrink, but the combination of the anxiety meds, the late hour, and the terrible dream still lurking at the surface of his thoughts makes him willing to do anything to stop thinking.

            The worst thing about what happened: it’s in his head now. He used to live in that cell; now the cell and everything that happened in it live in him now. He’d thought he’d left those chains behind him, but the only real difference is that now he carries those chains around with him everywhere he does. They have done the impossible—they have found a way to hurt him, and keep hurting him long after he is gone.

            Shortly after he comes to this realization, the meds kick in, and he falls into that welcoming blackness once again.

***

            “You don’t have to do this,” Niall says quietly as they bounce together in the back of the limousine. Liam curses mildly and straightens himself out; if they had a dollar more in their budget, he’d be spending it to fix the roads. As it is, there’s no extra money anywhere.

            “I actually do,” he says, his neutral tone belying the terrible anxiety that’s squirming in his stomach. “It has to be done eventually. It actually should have been done a while ago.”

            “You could have just sent me. There’s no real need for you to do this.”

            “It’s symbolic,” Liam says. “It brings as much closure as people will get before the trial. People are still restless, still a little mistrustful. If I do this, it’ll settle things done a bit.”

            “And I know you hate to leave Zayn for a day,” Niall continues as if Liam hadn’t said anything.

            Liam blinks, surprised that Niall has so accurately pinpointed the more obscure half of his unease. “I mean—I’m sure you are too. None of us want to be even an inch apart from him right now, let alone fifty miles.”

            “Well, o’course,” Niall says comfortably. “But you two are—you know.”

            “Are what?”

            Niall rolls his eyes. “Please don’t act like you’re stupid, Leemo—you’re not stupid. You and Zayn would live in each other’s arses if you thought it would bring you closer together.”

            Liam sighs deeply. “I honestly don’t know what exactly you mean by that,” he says finally, “but if you’re talking about what I think you are, then I don’t know how you know what you know, or why you’re interested, or why you think anything’s going on.”

            It’s Niall’s turn to sigh. He can do this much more expressively than Liam, an advantage he exploits unfairly. “Liam, you are far too good for that kind of bullshit politician talk. Normal Liam talk for this simple Irishman, please.”

            “I don’t know why you think Zayn and I have a special relationship.”

            “Because you do, and it’s very easy to see for anyone who’s looking.”

            “Why are you looking/’

            “Because that’s my job, Liam. I look for information about people. I’m very good at it.”

            Liam draws in a deep breath, preparing to sigh again, and then thinks better of it. “All right. I’m stupidly gone for Zayn, and I’m selfishly concerned that he’s not into me when what I should be worried about is his wellbeing. I mean, I’m worried about that, too, but I’m also worried that he doesn’t feel the same way. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

            “Pretty much.”

            “Why don’t you have any love interests I can bother you about?”

            “Never had one. Aromantic and asexual up in this house, baby.”

            Liam tries not to look surprised. “I never knew that.”

            Niall shrugs. “Probably because I never told you. I don’t have to give you the whole “I’m still the same Niall you’ve always known” talk, do I?”

            “You do not.” Liam thinks about it for a moment. “So I’ll never have retaliation material on you? You can tease about Zayn and I can’t even get back at you.”

            “Pretty much,” Niall says again. “S’one of the sweeter perks of bein’ ace.” He stares out the window for a moment and then says, “So anyway, my point is that you didn’t have to come with me, especially because Zayn’s getting discharged today.”

            “I know,” Liam says. “But Simon’s my uncle, and I was going to have to face him again eventually. Better now than later.” He pauses. “I do wish I could be there today for Zayn, though.”

            “I know, buddy,” Niall says softly, “I know.”

***

            The manor they put Simon in is by no means one of the more luxurious ones—before his several week stint in an underground cell, Liam would have thought it very shabby. By most standards, though, it’s a very kind place to put the man who once ordered the slaughter of thousands without even thinking. But there’s no possible way they could have put in him a regular prison—he would have been killed by the inmates instantly, and maybe deservingly so—and a regular house just doesn’t have the security they need. So the manor was the only option, and despite the criticism Liam has faced for being too kind or even biased towards his uncle, it’s the option that has satisfied most people.

            The truth is, he’s terrified to talk to Simon again. The last time he’d seen his uncle in person, he’d been settling onto the throne while Simon was being taken in handcuffs. The most vivid memory of that moment Liam has is the blood—it’s hadn’t been a violent coup, but he does remember that there’d been on body in the throne room, and that had resulted in some blood smeared on the floor; there’d been blood on his uncle’s temple from a minor cut; there’d been blood on Louis’ shirt when the other man had knelt before his new king. It’s a dream-like memory, and the redness of it all makes it seem vaguely unreal, like it happened to someone else. But he knows that they were not good circumstances to leave his uncle, and that this conversation has been delayed for far too long.

            “You can still wait in the car,” Niall reminds him as they get out and the royal guard closes ranks around them.

            “I already told you,” Liam says, “it looks good. If I sent someone else, people would think that I’m scared of him. And he’s the only family I have left. I owe him this much at least.”

            “He’s not the only family you have,” Niall says softly. “Y’got us, Leemo.”

            Liam shoots him a grateful look but doesn’t reply; Niall’s words have left a sudden and painful lump in his throat. But the great thing about Niall is that you never have to reply. He always knows what you mean anyway.

            They go up three flights of stairs—the manor is too old for elevators, annoyingly enough—through some perfunctory metal detectors, and then through the locked double doors that lead to the three or four rooms where Simon has spent the past year.

            “His Majesty King Liam the First, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of His other Realms and Territories King, Head of the Commonwealth, and Defender of the Faith,” the guard says as he sweeps open the door, “accompanied by His Grace Duke Horan of Tyrone, Head of the National Intelligence Service, and Royal Companion.”

            Liam puts his head up, his king face on, and strides through the door like he owns the place, which he technically does.

            “Your Majesty,” Simon says, rising as Liam walks in, and God, Liam had forgotten how his voice gets in your head and makes you feel two inches tall. “What a pleasure to see you. I was wondering when you’d drop in.”

            “I’ve been busy caring for the country,” Liam says drily, settling into a chair and motioning for Niall and Simon to sit. “Not that you would know anything about that.” Niall audibly sniggers, and Liam feels a little better about himself. “But it’s a pleasure to see you too.”

            Simon raises an eyebrow. “Well, that’s certainly good to hear. I was beginning to think that you’d forgotten all about your poor old uncle.”

            Liam is a little too old and smart for that sort of manipulation to work. “Trust me, Uncle, everyone’s having a very hard time forgetting about you, especially the people whose families and friends you had killed.”

            Simon’s eyebrow goes further up his forehead. “You’ve gotten very forward since I last saw you. You used to be grateful, you know. Grateful that I took you in after your family died.”

            “After your family died, too,” Liam says, lifting his chin. “He was your brother, Uncle. Don’t act like I was the shattered orphan you took in out of the kindness of your heart. You took me in because I was the only one who understood how you felt like the earth had been pulled out from under your feet. We helped each other heal, and I’d thought we’d done a pretty damn good job at it, too, until I realized that you just moved your brokenness from yourself to everyone else in the country.” Liam leans forward and meets the eyes of the man who has caused so much terror and pain, and see that he is just that—he’s just a man. The same man who Liam has known his whole life. And he is just as torn apart inside as everyone else. “I failed you, Uncle Simon,” Liam says, “and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t see what you were doing and that I didn’t stop you sooner. I’m sorry I didn’t see that what wrecked my life also wrecked yours, and that I couldn’t look past my grief to fix you, and that you were too weak and too proud to ask anyone for help. And I’m sorry that you ruined the lives of an entire country just because your life had been ruined too, but none of that is an excuse for anything you did. Because I could have turned out the same way as you, but I didn’t. You could have redeemed yourself, but you didn’t.”

            Simon looks down for a long moment and then meets Liam’s eyes. “He should have been the first born, you know,” he says. “Geoff, I mean. He was always the one that seemed more of a king than me.”

            Liam doesn’t say anything. Everything about this moment feels heavy and painful and final.

            “He didn’t have to order people to do things—people would die for him if they had to. All he had to do was ask. I was never like that. People didn’t love me the way they loved him. But I never resented him, you know? I tried to be more like him. And then when he died—all the good went out of the world. I didn’t have my role model any more. I saw him in you, a little bit, but it wasn’t enough.” Simon’s mouth is tight around the words. “It wasn’t enough. There was a darkness waiting for me where he used to be, and I fell into it. And I couldn’t get out. I didn’t want to.” He looks down, squeezes his eyes shut. “I don’t think I can be blamed for what I did. It’s not fair. Not from you—you know what losing him was like.”

            “Of course I know,” Liam says, and then suddenly, finally, anger rears its fiery head up in him. “Of course I know what it was like; he was my father, and I lost him. I lost my whole goddamn family, and I still never did what you did. My friend Louis lost his father, and he still didn’t do what you did. My—my friend Zayn lost his father, and saw the rest of his family die in front of him, and offered to die for me, and was taken alive and tortured for a year and a half, and he still didn’t do what you did. Just because bad things happen to you doesn’t mean that you have the right to be a bad person. You could have turned your pain into something good and beautiful and healing, and instead you decided to try and burn the whole world to the ground. And you know that. You know it was wrong. You’re just trying to get out of it. And you know what? My father—my father would not be proud. He would be ashamed to call you his brother. He would be glad you’re going to get what you deserve.”

            Simon’s eyes narrow. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

            “What I came to tell you is that you’re going on trial for abuse of power and crimes against humanity next month. An elected jury of commoners is going to sentence you, and I will stand by whatever decision they make.” Liam stands up; everyone but Simon stands with him. “I have nothing more to say to you. Before you’re sentenced I’m sure we’ll have a chance to say our goodbyes.” He begins walking towards the door. “Niall, be quick with him, please. I have a country I need to get back to running.”

            It’s an arsehole line, and he knows it, but he doesn’t care. He’s so fucking tired of everything.

            The minute he gets out of Simon’s chambers, he feels the tears coming, but he manages get all the way back into the limo before choking them out. There is so much that is unfair about this world, and he can’t think of anything more entitled than Simon thinking that he has the right to hurt everyone else just because he too has suffered.

            The door opens after about fifteen minutes, and Niall slides into the backseat next to him.

            “All right?” is the first thing he says when he sees Liam sitting there with angry tears on his face.

            “Yeah. Just—just give me a second to get back into king mode.”

            Niall pats his shoulder. “Take as much time as you need, buddy.”

            Liam nods and then closes his eyes. Wonders why everything needs to be so hard, why life is such an uphill battle. Why some people want to make everything harder.

            “I’m good,” he says after a moment. “Let’s drive.”

            Niall bangs on the glass separating them from the driver, and the car starts moving.

            “There’s one good thing that came out of that,” Liam says as they pull away from the manor and back out on the bumpy highway. “I’m not afraid of him anymore.”

            “And that’s all you really needed, yeah?” Niall says.

            Liam realizes that he’s right, that the only thing he needed out of this visit was to realize that Simon no longer has any power of him. “I guess so.” He takes a deep breath. “Thanks for just—just being there, Niall.”

            “That’s me job.” When Liam gives him an exasperated look, he grins. “And also I’m a supportive friend who likes to be there for his friends. I’m glad I could help you, Leemo. M’proud of you.”

            And that, Liam knows, is why these boys are the only family he will ever need.

***

            “I don’t care,” Zayn says, lifting his chin up defiantly. “He’s like my fucking brother, and he deserves to see me in person.”

            “You do realize it would be a million times easier just to bring him here, right?”

            “Ahad is in bad condition, and—”

            “Oh, and you’re not? Also he’s actually gotten a lot better, by the way,” Harry says. “He’ll be in the wheelchair for life, but he’s not nearly as fragile, and the disease has stopped spreading.”

            “See, I didn’t know that. I need to see him for myself, okay?”

            “I totally understand that,” Harry says in frustration, “but it would be better for you to stay here and let him come to you. You’re not healthy, Zayn. You still look like a walking corpse, and I don’t even want to think about how much pain you’re still in. You shouldn’t be traveling.”

            “Three hours in the backseat of a limo is not intensive travel, Harry. And I refuse to let him see me like this.”

            “Like what? Like you’re severely injured, which you are?”

            “Like I’ve been lying in a hospital bed for two weeks. It’s bad enough that I’ve actually have been doing that. He—” Zayn draws in a deep breath “—the kid looks up to me, okay? I have to show him that I’m okay, and that I’ll make it, and that nothing’s wrong with me. I don’t want to worry him. If I can’t prove to him that I’m still normal, I don’t know if I’ll even be able to believe it myself.”

            Harry looks at the ceiling for a long moment and then says, “Louis, back me up.”  

            “I’m with Zayn,” Louis says instantly. “But you’ve got to go in a wheelchair, okay, mate? We don’t want to overexerting yourself and making something bad happen.”

            Harry brightens a little. “I’d be better with it if you took a wheelchair, Zayn. Would you mind—”

            “Fine,” Zayn says. “I’ll take a fucking wheelchair. Now just call a fucking limo and get me there.”

            “You’re leaving now?” Harry and Louis ask in unison.

            “Wouldn’t you be angry if you didn’t know I was alive and I didn’t go see you right away? Of course I’m leaving now.”

            “Oh, for Christ’s sake, you’re insufferable,” Harry says, not without affection. “I’ll call up a car for you. Please be careful.”          

            “I’m always careful.”

            “Let me challenge that statement,” Louis says. “Exhibit A: that time you decided it’d be a good idea to try and fight a whole battalion of Circle members by yourself with the full intention of dying. Exhibit B: Scotland. Exhibit C: that time—”

            “—if you get into the Scotland debate again I’ll fucking murder you both,” Harry says. “Your car’s almost here, Zayn. Are you sure you don’t want someone coming with you.”

            “Please let me do this one thing by myself,” Zayn says wearily. “I just—want to pretend I’m not a fucking mess. For a day. For Ahad. Please.”

            Harry’s face softens. “Okay. Have a good time, okay?”

            “I’ll try.”

            “Tell Ahad I say hi,” Louis says. “Promise you’ll stay in the wheelchair and won’t do anything stupid, okay?”

            “I’ll try,” Zayn repeats.

            He actually ends up sleeping through most of the drive, which is nice because he doesn’t dream at all. It’s been three weeks since he was pulled out of the Circle base, and he slept for a full week of that time, and it still feels like he’s catching up on sleep. Maybe that nurse is right, and he’s putting so much energy into healing that he doesn’t have any left for anything else, including the ability to be awake for more than a few hours at a time. Speaking of which, his healing is coming along pretty great—he’s put on some weight, got a few stitches taken out, and can walk from one end of his bedroom to the other without any help on a good day. The mental stuff is—well, it’s still not that great, but he’s pretty sure it’s going to take years before he can wake up without feeling like the world is ending for no good reason. It’s that residual terror; he’s had it in his system for so long that it’s going to take a lot of time and work to flush it all out. And some of the time he feels hopeful about it, like today. Other times—other times, not so much. But it’s only been two weeks, and as Liam reminds him, Rome wasn’t built in a day.

            Speaking of Liam: Zayn sometimes gets out of bed for the sole reason that it means there’s a higher chance he might see Liam if he does. He’d been afraid at first that after everything that had happened to him, his emotions would be fucked up, that he wouldn’t be able to feel anything anymore, but he still feels the same about Liam as he always has, like there’s a balloon in his chest that keeps getting bigger with every breath. And he’s hesitant to use the word _love_ , mainly because he’s not sure if that’s what it is quite yet, because he doesn’t want to thrust that heavy of an emotion on Liam when he’s such a mess and can’t quite rely even on his own head, but on good days like this one—well, on days like this there is enough space for what he feels between those four letters. On days like these _love_ doesn’t feel too far off from the fire that has found a home in his veins.

            When they get to Bradford, Zayn is deeply impressed by the improvements that Liam’s administration has made. Liam had told him that rebuilding and giving aid to cities that had been damaged the most under Simon’s regime had been a high priority, but he hadn’t expected those efforts to be this effective. The city looks how he remembers it from when he’d been much younger—more crowded, more energetic, more alive. There’s a parallel to himself in there somewhere, he’s sure, but he’ll stick with just saying that everything in England is coming back to life under Liam’s touch.

            He has the driver drop him off in a small square not too far from Ahad’s house—despite the fact that it’ll be hard to get there in the wheelchair, he wants to take some time and see the city hands-on; it feels odd to be driving through the city of his youth in a royal limousine. And, he realizes, he should probably call ahead and let Ahad and Amina know that he’s coming. He doesn’t want them to open their front door, find him back from the dead and standing on their porch, and have a heart attack.

            The driver helps him out of the car, settles him in his wheelchair, and then takes off to do whatever drivers do when they’re waiting for their clients. Zayn makes sure he can roll himself around in his chair, finds that it’s a good deal harder than it looks, and is taking out his phone to call Amina when—

            “Zayn Malik!”

            He turns and sees an older man who used to go to his mosque walking towards him with open arms and a delighted smile.

            “Mr. Mahar,” Zayn says politely, fighting the automatic urge to stand and shake the other man’s hand and settling on just doing the latter. “It’s been a while.”

            “It has indeed. I was beginning to worry about you, my boy. That girl that used to be friends with your sister—the one with the son, now, what was her name?”

            “Amina,” Zayn supplies.

            “Amina, yes, just that—she said you were dead! Said the king himself told her. Now, I just didn’t believe it—Zayn Malik, dead. No, I knew you were too dead to be killed by those Circle bastards. And here you are, just like I said.” He squints at Zayn closely. “Although I see you’re not in the shape you used to be, eh?”

            “I got a little beat up,” Zayn says. “I’m getting better now. The chair isn’t permanent.”

            “That’s a relief to hear. I’m assuming you’re here to disillusion young Amina and her boy of the idea that you’re dead?”

            “That’s exactly right, sir,” Zayn says. “I wouldn’t want them not to know.”

            “Then I won’t keep you. It was fine seeing you, son.”

            “You too, sir.”

            Mr. Mahar shakes his hand again and goes on his way, leaving Zayn feeling oddly encouraged—there are people in the world who can look at Zayn and still see the person he used to be, can still see the person that has been buried under months of torture. Maybe he can get that person back after all.

            He dials Amina’s number and waits nervously for her to pick up; he probably should have planned out what he’s going to say before she answers; he should have probably called further in advance, what if—

            “Hello?” She sounds the same as she always has, the same as she did when she was a teenager talking his twelve-year-old self into letting Doniya and her put makeup on him, the same as she did the last time he saw her nearly two years ago.

            He clears his throat. “Hi, Amina.”

            “Erm, sorry, who is this? If this is a telemarketing call, I’m in the middle of making dinner and I don’t really have time to talk—”

            “No, I—” Zayn struggles to get a coherent sentence out of his mouth “Actually, I—you’re at home then? Is Ahad home too?”

            “Yes, we’re both at home/” Her voice is a little suspicious. “Are you one of his friends? You sound awfully old to be in secondary school. Actually, you sound a lot like this bloke I used to know—that’s a compliment, mind.”

            “Oh yeah? What—what was his name?” His voice is rough; there are tears streaming down his face, and he’s not even quite sure why.

            “Zayn,” she says. “Zayn Malik.” Then she pauses. “What did you say you needed again?”

            “Oh.” He sniffs, draws in a deep breath. “I—Amina, you might want to sit down.”

            “Why?” Her voice is wary without even trying to conceal it now. “No one’s died, have they? And what did you say your name was?”

            “Zayn,” he says. “Zayn Malik.”

            There’s a very long silence on the other end of the phone. Then Amina says, “That’s not very funny, young man. Now you just shape up and tell me what you want, or I’m hanging up.”

            “Amina,” Zayn says gently. “I’m not joking. I’m—”

            “Zayn Malik is goddamn dead,” Amina snaps. “If you think this is funny, it’s not. You should be more respectful of a man who died to make this country a better place. Do you do this to everyone, then? Call and impersonate their dead loved ones for fun? Zayn Malik was one of the best men I ever knew, and his memory deserves more dignity than being used for a cheap prank.”

            “Amina, listen, I’m not j—”

            She hangs up with a decisive click, and even though the connection has been severed, he can practically hear her fuming at the other end of the line. He sighs and turns off his phone; there’s no helping it, then. He’ll just have to go in cold turkey.

            It takes him about ten minutes to get down to the house, mainly just because it takes him a while to get the hang of pushing himself in the wheelchair, which makes it very tempting to try his luck walking. But it’s hardly the worst obstacle he’s ever faced, and after a few blocks he’s managed to make the process as economical as possible—if he walked and then ended up passing out, he’d never hear the end of it from the boys, and probably wouldn’t be allowed to leave the palace alone until his mid-thirties.

            The house looks the same as it always has—the mailbox he’s repaired countless times, the rickety fence around the yard, the slightly sagging front porch he’d been planning to repaint before everything went to shit and he never got the chance. He thankfully doesn’t have to worry about porch steps, as the only change to the house is an addition of a wheelchair ramp, a development Zayn has the feeling Liam is responsible for, as they’d never had the money for such a luxury before.

            And then his finger is on the doorbell, and then the door is flying open, and then—

            “Holy fucking shit,” Amina says. “Am I dead? Is this heaven?”

            “No, and no,” Zayn says. “And God, Amina, watch your fuckin’ language.”

            “So you’re—holy fuck, you’re alive.” She sits down abruptly and puts her head in her hands. “Holy _fuck_ , you’re alive.” She stays like that for a moment, and then looks up. “Zayn?”

            “It’s me,” Zayn says softly. “I’m alive.”

            She blinks very hard for a couple times, and then turns away; he catches tears spilling down her cheeks before she wipes her face and turns back around. “Come inside, then. I’m going to need an explanation.”

            He wheels himself into the house, and she watches him with a beady eye. “You’re new to that wheelchair, yeah?”

            “That obvious?”

            She nods.

            “It’s actually my first time using it. They wouldn’t let me leave without it, seeing as I’ve been having trouble walking and standing.”

            “And why’s that? You look like living death, so I’m assuming something terrible happened,” she says bluntly.

            “Thanks, Amina.”

            “Spit it out.”

            “The Circle,” he says carefully. “I was taken by them for a year and a half.”

            “So that white boy of yours lied to me.”

            “Who?”

            She makes a dismissive gesture. “The king, whoever. His Majesty who’s head over heels for you. He told us you were dead.”

            “He thought I was dead,” Zayn says a little protectively. “He only found out otherwise three weeks ago.”

            “Mum!” Ahad’s voice sounds from the kitchen. “Do we have any dish soap in the basement? The bottle up here’s empty.”

            “Forget the dishes, sweetheart,” Amina calls back. “We’ve got a visitor. Come here and say hi.” She turns to Zayn. “He was shattered when we found out. I can’t tell you how much hope this will bring him—us.”

            “Who is it—oh.” Ahad looks impossibly older; he must be fourteen by now. Zayn feels immeasurably old.

            “Hey, buddy,” Zayn quietly. “I missed you.”

            “I—” and then Ahad is wheeling over to him at the speed of light, and their chairs awkwardly collide, and they’re clinging to each other like they’re terrified to let go, which Zayn definitely is. “I missed you too,” Ahad whispers. “How are you here?” He draws back and stares at Zayn. “Do you actually have superpowers? Can you come back from the dead?”

            Zayn laughs weakly. “Yeah, my superhero name is gonna be Lazarus.”

            “No, for real.”

            “I wasn’t really dead. Everyone thought I was for almost two years now, but I’m still kickin’.”

            “You’re in a wheelchair like me,” Ahad says matter-of-factedly.

            “Yeah, s’not permanent, though, so we won’t be matching forever.”

            “You got hurt really bad.” Again, he says it in that straight-forward, unquestioning voice of his, a voice that demands an answer without ever really posing a question.

            “I did,” Zayn says. “Really, really bad. But I’m planning on pulling through, don’t worry. It’s not the end of the world.”

            “It almost was,” Ahad says seriously. “But for now, you’re cool like Professor X and me.”

            “Exactly,” Zayn says, and when Ahad puts out a fist to bump against his, he remembers every single reason he has to keep on living.

***

            Liam keeps rambling about the wine, and it’s getting a little embarrassing. This is Zayn, for God’s sake, and it’s not like this is a date. This is just a friendly dinner between friends in Liam’s personal chambers. Two friends who are alone together. Who have also kissed.

            No big deal, right?

            The point is, Liam specifically ordered up a special bottle to impress Zayn, and now he can’t stop talking about what the chef told him about it, because apparently he’s the world’s hugest idiot.

            “Liam,” Zayn says after the fifth running minute of this. “I haven’t had wine in at least two years. I assure I do not the difference between good wine and bad wine. At this point you could probably give me grape juice, and I would believe it was wine.”

            “Right,” Liam says. “Sorry.” He clears his throat and takes a sip of water, trying not to scream at his own stupidity. “I heard your Bradford trip yesterday was a success.”

            “It was fantastic,” Zayn says, his voice warm. “It doesn’t feel like a miracle, you know? It’s so fucking hard to feel lucky until you’re reminded that you get to see the people who love you again, even if it’s just another minute.”

            “It always feels like a miracle to me,” Liam says before he can stop himself, and then spends thirty straight seconds trying to fight the urge to slap his hands over his mouth.

            “I’m flattered,” Zayn says wryly. “That might be because you’re not the one who’s puking up his breakfast every morning because his stomach’s not used to food.”

            This, Liam knows, is true—Zayn is on a restricted diet to help him adjust to normal eating habits again, but even with such precautions, he often can’t keep his food down, which is why they had to order up special room service for him. Liam does notices, however, that he’s bending the rules a little for the wine.

            “Like you wouldn’t,” Zayn says when Liam mentions it. “Plus, you went to all this trouble of wining and dining me, so I feel obligated to at least try it.”

            It’s the first full day Zayn has been out of the hospital and Liam wishes that they could have celebrated a little more elaborately, but he has to admit that this is nice. It’s refreshing change from all the state dinners and formal meal he eats.

            “I’m not wining and dining you,” Liam protests with a grin, and Zayn laughs

            “You are, and I’m loving it. But it’s unnecessary, of course—Prince Charming will get his kiss by the end of the night no matter if the wine is one hundred or two hundred years old.”

            “It’s fifty years old,” Liam says, feeling himself blush. “And that’s not why I ordered it; it’s just to celebrate.”      

            “I know,” Zayn says, expression softening. “M’just teaching you, babe.”

            Liam tries not to show how much he loves Zayn calling him babe. “I know.”

            They eat in silence for a bit, and then Zayn says, “This is a date, isn’t it? Or like—as close as we’ll get to a normal date? If it’s not please forget I said anything.”

            Liam almost laughs aloud at the realization that Zayn is just as nervous as he is. “I’d like to think it is, yeah.”

            “Okay,” Zayn says, “I’m glad.”

There aren't many things that can make Liam as happy as the soft grin on Zayn's face when they turn back to their meal, or the warm glow in Liam's stomach that has nothing to the food, and everything to do with the secondary-school pleasure of having asked out his crush. It's ridiculous, how something so simple as seeing Zayn sit across from him at a dinner table and share a smile  with him can make Liam so content. 

            When they’re done eating, Liam takes Zayn down to the royal gardens, and Zayn tells him a story about the stars, and when they kiss, it’s like the whole world stops just to cheer them on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that's it! hopefully it was the worth the wait. I'm vaguely dissatisfied with the ending because I wanted more romance in this chapter, but then the length got out of control, so i had to wrap it up. so there will be more romance next chapter, don't worry! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented last chapter; i know i haven't replied yet, but i promise i will do that tomorrow when I'm not so tired. you guys are awesome, and i will see you next week!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god, you would not believe the kind of day I've had. I'll spare you the details, but someone who hired me for a job was really shitty and almost didn't pay me for the work i did, and it was awful. good news is, i got payed and everything is good now. But life was really crazy for a hot sec there. 
> 
> as the past few chapters has, this chapter deals with the mental and physical repercussions of Zayn's torture. the reason i mention this is because i noticed some people commenting last chapter saying those parts were hard to read. idk if that means that it was triggering or upsetting for you, but i thought it would be better just to warn in advance from now! if it helps, this chapter is definitely less graphic than the last one, though. 
> 
> while we're on the topic of comments, thank you so much to everyone commented last week! as always i love reading your comments, and everyone is always so so nice. i do not deserve a quarter of the nice things you say about this fic. 
> 
> ok, enough with these crazy long author's notes. on to the fic!! there's way more fluff and romance today :D

“So,” Zayn says, maneuvering his wheelchair until he’s sitting across from the therapist with the desk in between them, “your name is Dr. Pepper. Did you think that out before you went to medical school?”

            “I did, actually,” the therapist says. He’s much younger than Zayn had expected—although Zayn hadn’t been aware he’d really been expecting anything at all. “I figured I shouldn’t let it dictate my career choice. And at the very least it’s made a few clients of mine laugh, which is always something. But I’d honestly rather you call me Ned, Sir Malik.”

            “Ned it is,” Zayn says with a shrug. “But you have to call me Zayn, then, yeah? If you call me Sir Malik, I probably won’t even respond half the bloody time. Dunno how I ended up with a title, really.”

            “Probably the same reason while you’re in here,” Ned says, leaning back in his chair and surveying Zayn with an unreadable expression.

            “There it is. I was wondering when you’d jump on that.”

            “I’d actually rather not talk about _that_ , as you put, today. I doubt you’ve told anyone much about what happened to you, and I certainly don’t want you to feel like you’re obliged to tell a stranger. How about we just get to know each other?”

            “Whatever makes you happy.”

            “Excellent.” Ned shuffles some papers pointlessly on his desk and then looks up. “Could you describe yourself with one word?”

            Zayn stares at him for a moment, reviewing every word he can possibly think of in his head. _Resilient_ sounds cliché, _damaged_ sounds melodramatic, and _frightened_ sounds like he’s looking for attention, even though all three adjectives are applicable.

            “If you can’t think of anything, that’s fine,” Ned says mildly after a long silence. When Zayn just shakes his head mutely, he asks, “Would you like to hear mine?”

            “Sure.”

            “I was going to choose grateful, because I meet with men like you every day and help them live more fulfilling lives, and I can’t ask for more than that.”

            There’s a longer silence than had stretched out between them before, and then Zayn says flatly, “Either that’s a party line, or you’re blander than I’d thought.”

            Ned laughs. “You’re right, that’s bullshit. I’d like to think I’m adventurous, honestly. I try to live life to its fullest, and I try to practice unconventional methods in my job. So that would probably be my word.” He shuffles his papers again. “Come up with anything yet?”

            Zayn thinks for another moment. “Disconnected,” he says finally. “I feel like I’m sitting outside of my body a lot. I—yeah.”

            “I know we said we wouldn’t talk about what happened, but would you describe yourself that way if this conversation had happened, say, two years ago?”

            “No.”

            “What would be your word then?”

            “Determined,” Zayn says, very softly. “Driven. Present. Hungry—not for food, I mean, but for something better in life. Something more.”

            “Given your circumstances, those are all excellent words.” Ned pauses, thinking a moment. “I suppose, then, the question is whether those things have been taken away from you. And whether or not you will be able to take them back. Or perhaps the question is something different entirely.”

            “The question of what?”

            “Of what you’re trying to figure out about yourself,” Ned says seriously. “But the reality of it is that you will have to decide that for yourself. If you even want anything out of this at all.”

            Zayn doesn’t say anything. He’s not quite sure he likes the awareness that even if Ned is acting natural, the doctor is actually analyzing every word he speaks. He does get the feeling that it’ll be easier to ignore some times more than others—right now, he feels like he’s under a microscope, though. Ned seems to pick up on this, and quickly moves on to ask him about the boys; how he knows Zayn’s as close with them as he is, Zayn doesn’t know, but he doesn’t mind, either. The friendship he holds with the other four boys is the most important thing in his life. It’s not like it’s something he needs to hide.          

            His relationship with Liam, however, is something he keeps under tighter wraps, if only because they haven’t really talked about it or defined it yet. If he said anything without talking to Liam first, not only would that unfair to both of them, but Ned could sell them to the press, and then Liam would be facing the scandal of a lifetime. But if Zayn closes his eyes for longer than it takes to blink, he can see Liam in front of him, golden and glowing, can taste him on his lips, like expensive wine and the smell of a windy night with clear bright stars. It’s hard to keep feeling alive like that a secret.

            They spend the rest of the session talking about trivial things—Zayn realizes it’s an attempt to get him comfortable in the environment, but he’s still pleased that Ned didn’t start grilling him on the first day—but right before Zayn leaves, Ned stops him with outstretched hand that hovers over his shoulder but does not touch him.

            “Zayn,” he says, “could I ask you a favor?”

            “Depends on the favor,” Zayn says, eyeing him. He wonders how many PTSD ridden clients had taught Ned not to touch any of them.

            “Talk to someone,” Ned says soberly. “I said at the beginning that if you don’t want to talk about what happened, you won’t have to, but I would like you to at least try to open up a little to one of your friends. You sound like you’re very close to them, and I—I would like you to start thinking about talking a bit more. Trust me, I only say this because I know firsthand how dangerous silence can be. It will destroy you from the inside out, Zayn.”

            “Most of my outsides are already destroyed,” Zayn says lightly. “I suppose I’ll just try and preserve what I’ve got left then, yeah?”

            “That’s the spirit,” Ned says. “Nice meeting you, mate.”

            “Sure thing.”

            Zayn wheels his chair out of the room with one last farewell, and wonders, silently, how he will ever be able to talk about any of what happened to anyone when he can’t even bring himself to think about it most of the time.

***

            “You didn’t really think that you’d ever get away, did you?” The man is faceless, they’re all faceless, but Zayn doesn’t need to see his expression to know that blood is going to be shed, and that it will be Zayn’s. “You didn’t really think it’d be that easy? Because you should know that once you’re here, you’re here forever. This is your life, if you can even call it a life. You are ours, ours to make bleed and scream and beg. You’re not getting out.”

            “They got me out,” Zayn says, but his voice is barely a whisper. “They got me out. I remember it.”

            “Your friends? They sold you out as soon as they heard the price we were offering. You’ll always end up here eventually, Zayn. The people who you think care about you will always lead you back to us.”

            In the end, it’s the man’s use of Zayn’s name that tells him it’s a dream. They never used his name in real life; that’s how he almost ended up forgetting it.

            He wakes up with his wrists straining against invisible chains, and his throat clogged up with a silent scream.

***

            “Sir Zayn Malik come to see you, Your Majesty.”

            Liam looks up, startled. It’s well past midnight; he shouldn’t be awake and working himself, much less Zayn, whose condition is still fragile.

            “Should I send him away, Your Majesty?”

            “No, no, of course not—bring him in.”

            The guard bows and leaves the room, returning seconds later with Zayn in tow.

            The first thing that Liam thinks when he sees Zayn is _haunted_. The other man looks almost ill with anxiety, his skin pale and shoulders tense. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on his skin; he looks like he’s halfway to fainting.

            “Thank you, Paddy, you may leave us,” Liam says pleasantly to the guard. When the door closes behind him, he turns to Zayn. “You shouldn’t be walking around without your wheelchair, especially late at night.”

            “Oh, fuck the wheelchair,” Zayn says. His chest is heaving.

            “Do you feel okay?”

            “I—I don’t know, I had this dream, and—are you working? I can leave, I just—I came here, it’s the first place I thought of, I couldn’t be alone, but—I can go see—”

            “I’m not working, really,” Liam says, pushing his stack of papers off the sofa he’s on. “This stuff doesn’t even need to get done for a while. I was just doing it because I couldn’t sleep. Come sit down with me, yeah?”

            Zayn nods and comes to sit down beside him. He looks even worse close up—dark circles under his eyes, bones still visible under his scarred skin. But he still looks like an angel, like a god, even like this.

            “Can I touch you?”

            “You don’t need to ask.”

            “I like checking first.”

            “You wouldn’t ask the others first.”

            Liam sighs. “It’s different with you, and you know it, Zayn. I’m only trying to help.”

            Zayn closes his eyes briefly, lashes fluttering against his skin. “You’re right. Sorry. Just—knee jerk reaction.”

            “I know.” Liam puts his arm around Zayn’s shoulders and pulls him into his side; Zayn tucks his knees up to his chest and leans into him, eyes still closed.

            “You want to hear a story?” Liam says after a bit. “I feel like you’re always telling them to me; time to return the favor, innit.”

            “A king saying _innit_ is all the entertainment I need in life,” Zayn says. He sounds a little more like himself now, which is encouraging. “But go ahead.”

            “Okay.” Liam clears his throat. “Once upon a time, there was a kingdom which was set upon by a dark and terrible curse.”

            “Who cast the curse?”

            “I’m getting to that, Zayn, Jesus Christ. Shut up and let me tell you.” He clears his throat again, and Zayn laughs silently, body shaking next to Liam’s. “The curse was cast by the kingdom’s king. He had suffered the loss of his—sister, and he wanted to make the whole world feel his grief.”

            “Selfish bastard.”

            “Yes, he was. He was slowly drawing on the life force of his people, beating them down until they were weary and desperate while he gained ever more vitality. It was a vicious cycle, for the more they resisted, the more he sucked out of them. But then, some of the people, realizing the kingdom was near destruction, decided to take the thing the king loved most in this world—his son. The prince was terrified upon being kidnapped, but the moment he saw what his father had done to the kingdom, he pledged himself to the revolution.”

            “Don’t tell me—the king found out and decided to kill his son for the sake of power.”

            “Of course not, Zayn. That might happen in real life, but this is a story.”

            “Well, hurry up and get on with it. M’getting tired.”

            “That’s the fucking point, Zayn. This is a bedtime story.”

            “M’not a kid anymore. Don’t need bedtime stories,” Zayn mumbles, but he looks content as he closes his eyes again and rests his head on Liam’s shoulder.

            “The prince found a way to defeat the evil king once and for all, because in stories, you can really, truly defeat someone once and for all. But to his horror, it required a sacrifice to work. The sacrifice of someone who opposed the king. _I will do it_ , the prince said. _He is my father, surely I am the one who deserves to die._ But little did the prince know that he was not the one destined to die. Instead, the spell he cast took the life of one of his dearest and most beloved friends.”

            Zayn looks close to sleep now, but he still murmurs, “There’s always a catch, isn’t there,” into Liam’s shoulder.

            “Exactly. The prince was devastated and wracked by guilt. But his friend’s last wish was that he defeat the king and rule the kingdom, and so the prince did exactly that, but he did it with no joy in his heart. While the kingdom regained its life and happiness, the prince—now a king—sat in his palace and poured his heart into making the life of the people even better. He no longer cared for himself.”

            “Stupid prince. Should’ve known it wasn’t his fault.”

            Liam swallows, hard, and doesn’t reply. “A year and a day after the evil king had been defeated, another of the prince’s closest friends came to him and said, _All this time you thought I was a mere man, but I was in fact a powerful wizard who wanted to help your cause. Because you have been such a good and kind king to the people, I will grant you one wish as your reward._ The prince did not have to think twice. _I would like my dear friend back_ , he said. _If it is possible for you to bring him back to me, that is all that I could ask for_. And so the powerful wizard did just that. The prince and his friend were reunited and eventually fell in love, and neither of them ever were sad again in their lives. Their troubles were over, and they lived happily ever after.” He looks down at Zayn, who is now asleep. Liam hopes he at least heard the happy ending. “Because in stories,” he says softly, “they get a happily ever after, but in real life, all we get is each other, and I know that’s not much, but I hope it’ll be enough for us, Zayn. I hope it’ll be enough.”

***

            Zayn wakes up feeling like the world is going to end. This is not an uncommon feeling for him in the morning—apparently it’s pretty normal for victims of emotional and physical trauma to develop anxiety even after they’ve been removed from the negative environment—and they’ve given him medicine for it, but the pills don’t always work. He’s learning that meds to stop pain in your body are much more reliable than the ones that stop pain in your head. But the real issue is that he’s had so much to worry about for so long that it seems stupid to be worrying when there’s finally nothing to worry about. He knows that’s not how it works, but that is how it feels.

            He keeps his eyes closed until the feeling has ebbed away a little, which doesn’t take as long as he’d expected. When he opens them, he’s slumped and freezing on a sofa in Liam’s chambers; Liam himself is hunched over next to him fast asleep. Despite the fact that he doesn’t have a blanket and the room feels like it’s been infused with art from the Arctic, Zayn feels a warm glow starting inside of him—sleeping Liam is probably one of the best things to wake up to that he can think of.

            Slipping out from under the arm Liam still has loosely slung over his shoulders, Zayn presses a gentle kiss onto the other man’s forehead and goes in search of a blanket for both of them. He’s only been in Liam’s chambers a few times, but he’s fairly sure that even if he doesn’t find any spares, there will be blankets on the bed.

            Going out without his wheelchair or meds last night was definitely a bad idea, he concludes as he has to sit down after a few steps—there’s a dull ache under his ribs when he breathes, and his legs feel like they’re made of water. He’s always been a fairly fast healer, so it’s doubly frustrating that he can’t even walk without getting light-headed these days. He dreads to think how long it’ll be before he can fight again.

            Not, he realizes, that he needs to be able to fight anymore. There are no more missions to go on, no more rebel prisoners to break out of royal prisons. His usefulness will no longer be defined by his physical capabilities—even if he’s never able to pull a trigger or throw a punch again, he’ll be safe. This thought, more than anything, cheers him enough to drive away the linger dregs of his anxiety and gives him the motivation to get on his feet again. Maybe he’ll finally go to uni, study English like he’s always wanted to, get a degree. That would make his mum and dad more proud than anything he’s done so far; they wanted him to go to uni more than anything.

            He gets to Liam’s bedroom, sweeps the heavy duvet off of the bed, and wraps it around himself like a cloak, reveling in the warmth it instantly provides. Because he’s not sure if he’ll be able to make it back to the sofa without passing out, he slides back to Liam over the polish wood floor on his bum like a child, still wrapped in the blanket.

            “Nice look,” Liam says, because apparently he’s already woken up, and he’s a traitor. “You should wear that more often. It suits you.”

            “Everything suits me, fuck you,” Zayn says, hoisting himself back up onto the sofa and opening one side of the blanket. “Get in here and give me your body heat.”

            Liam rolls over and wraps half the blanket around himself. “Was a bit scared when I woke up and you were gone,” he says casually. “I’m glad you’re still here.”

            “I’m not the kind of man who runs off after a one-night stand, babe.”

            This is greeted by an eye roll. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it. I was afraid you’d gotten sick or something. And no part of this resembles a one-night stand, either.”

            “I should hope not.”

            “Do you reckon—” Liam breaks off and shakes his head.

            “Spit it out, Payne.”

            “Do you reckon we’re proper boyfriends now? Is that what this is?”

            “That’s what I’d like it to be,” Zayn says carefully. “But it’s not like this is just about us, y’know. You’re a public figure. You’re the bloody king. If we—”

            “I didn’t mean we should tell everyone right away,” Liam says hastily. “I just meant—between us, like. We’re boyfriends?”

            “I reckon we are, babe.”

            They both grin at each for a moment, feeling like lovesick fools, feeling like they’d rather not be anything else.

            “Should we tell the boys, then? They’re bound to find out anyway,” Zayn says.

            Liam laughs. “Niall is already on my case about it. We’ll have to tell them.”

            “Together, or—?”

            “Just whenever we find the time, I suppose. It doesn’t need to be a big thing. They were all already expecting it anyway.”

            “Right as always.” Zayn leans over and kisses Liam carefully, very aware of the fragile, hard-bought happiness that sits between them.

            “I’m glad,” Liam says after a moment, “that this is—you know—happening. I think I’m falling a bit in love with you, Zayn Malik.” Five seconds later, he claps both hands over his mouth. “ForgetIsaidanythingforgetIsaidanything—”

            “I think,” Zayn interrupts hesitantly, “that I might be falling a bit in love with you, too, Your Majesty.”

            “Liam,” Liam says.

            Zayn shrugs, feeling a smile spread wickedly across his face. “I think your title is a bit hot, don’t you—” he leans over and brings his mouth close to Liam’s ear, lips barely brushing his skin as he whispers “—Your Majesty?”

            The helpless expression on Liam’s face makes Zayn’s whole day.

***     

            None of the boys are the least bit surprised. In fact, Louis actually says, “Oh, I already know. I’ve known for months.”

            “We haven’t been dating for months, Louis. Zayn was literally in prison for eighteen months before now; how would we be dating then?”

            Louis raises an eyebrow and grins, which is how Liam knows he’s being a little shit. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but you two have been dating for several months, Louis.”

            Zayn tells him to piss off.

            Niall, because he’s Niall, takes it all in stride while looking very smug indeed. Thankfully, he holds back the _I told you so_ that’s doubtlessly at the tip of his tongue, because he probably called it all before any of them ever even met.

            Harry, when Liam tells him, is ecstatic. He gushes for roughly fifteen minutes about how happy he is, and how good this will be for him and Zayn, and how they’re perfect for each other, and then says in one big breath, “Also I’m thinking of proposing to Louis.”

            Liam blinks. “ _What_?”

            Harry looks apologetic. “I didn’t mean to try and one up you lot or anything—it’s just—I had to tell someone. I have a ring and everything, and I just had to tell you, it was eating me up, okay?”

            Then it’s Liam’s turn to gush for a while about how glad he is, and proud he is of him and Louis, and how perfect they are for each other.  

            He’s pretty sure it’s a cathartic experience for them both. Sometimes you just have to let a little bit of the happiness out.

            “When are you going to do it?” he asks when they’re done.

            “Not for a bit. I just—I’d like to wait a bit more. Things are still so hectic, you know? I’d like to ask him at a calmer time, I think.”

            “I better be your best man,” Liam says, shoving him lightly.

            “I was actually thinking you might do the ceremony? Because you’re the king and all, so you’re allowed to? I’ll have to ask Louis, but—”

            “Ask Louis what?” Louis asks, appearing around the corner carrying a stack of reports and looking grumpy. “Hopefully not to deliver more papers; I’ve been doing that all fuckin’ morning.”

            “It’s nothing,” Harry says quickly. “Are those for Liam?”

            “Yeah. Stuff about Simon’s trial.” He looks somber. “They’re thinking about having the death penalty on the board.”

            Liam lets out a long breath, feeling some of the happiness seep out of him along with the oxygen. “I’ll look them over. Thanks, mate.”

            “No problem.” He turns to Harry. “So have you heard that our two idiot best friends are dating now?”

            “I can’t wait—”

            “—to tease the shit out of them?”

            “You read my mind.”

            They turn to Liam with identical evil grins, and Liam prays to any god that might be listening for mercy.

***

            Ned is actually more helpful than Zayn had expected. He tells him that he’s suffering from something called depersonalization, which is what Zayn feeling like he’s not in own body is called.

            “It’s quite common in people who have experience physical trauma,” he explains. “It’s your mind’s way of coping with what’s happening to your body—it just disconnects and lets you pretend it’s not happening to you. It’s actually not the worst way of coping, but it can get disconcerting when it keeps happening after the fact.”

            Unlike the anxiety thing, there isn’t anything Ned can give him to help with that specifically, but there are a few things they can try.

            “Most likely, it’ll just go away by itself,” Ned says. “Hopefully sooner rather than later.”

            The most helpful thing Ned has said to him so far, though, is the suggestion to talk to the boys. It’s not like he’s sitting down and having a thorough chat with them that details all the horrific ways his body has been injured, but he’ll sometimes say something undramatic and small in conversation, and even that makes him feel a little better. It’s not even something about what happened to him, it’s just something about how he feels, usually—the truth about whether he’s in pain or not, the admission that he’s having nightmares, the confession that being around them makes him feel better no matter how much pain or distress he’s in.

            Being vulnerable, it seems, is the only way to make himself strong again, and the less he likes accepting that paradox, the more it seems to be true. And yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, the words of the man from his dream still linger: _The people who you think care about you will always lead you back to us._

           

           

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thaaaat's all folks!!! hope you liked this week's chapter. did you guys like the Larry proposal hints? we may be seeing a larriage before this fic is done ;)) also....I'm super excited for next week's chapter (something you all have been waiting for is coming up) and i will see you then!!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH YOU GUYS THIS IS SUCH A LONG CHAPTER!!! I'm so proud and happy with this one. I think it might actually be the longest chapter yet. Which is why it took me longer to upload than usual, but hey--at least you get a super long, exciting chapter out of it. Like i said last week, this one has something you've all been waiting for, so I won't talk for much longer. Get reading ;))

“Just hold that pose a little longer, Sir—oh, Your Majesty. A pleasure to see you, Your Majesty.”

            “Yeah, a bloody pleasure,” Zayn says between gritted teeth. “Can I release now?”

            Zayn’s physical therapist doesn’t turn her attention from Liam. “Go ahead, Sir Malik.”

            “It’s Zayn,” Zayn says, releasing the stretch he’d been holding and wincing. “Good God, if I didn’t know what it really felt like, I’d say the shit you make me do is torture.” There’s a slightly awkward silence, and he raises his eyebrows. “Tough crowd.”

            “No one knows how to respond when you say things like that, Zayn,” Liam says.

            “It’s a joke. The socially acceptable response would be laughing, Your Majesty.”

            Liam manages to refrain from rolling his eyes and turns to the therapist. “Mind if I steal him for a quick moment? There’s a few things we need to discuss.”

            “Please, go ahead. We were almost done anyway.”

            “Perfect, thank you.”

            They walk—or rather, Liam walks and Zayn limps along while throwing vaguely resentful looks at his therapist over his shoulder for whatever pain her stretches have inflicted upon him—just out of earshot and come to a halt.

            “What’s the emergency?”  Zayn asks before Liam can even open his mouth. “I’m not in fighting condition yet, so if you need someone’s arse kicked, I’m sure Louis would be happy—”

            “No arses need to be kicked, and before you ask, no one’s died either.”

            “I wasn’t going to ask that,” Zayn says smoothly, “because I’m the only person we know who’s in danger of dying. And obviously I’m quite alive.”

            “Not funny. I need to ask you about two things, yeah? First of all, there’s a state dinner with the Americans next week, and I need to know if you can come.”

            “You couldn’t have sent a lackey to ask that? Or even an email? A text, perhaps? You just _had_ to come down here yourself and—”

            “You caught me, I just wanted to see you. But I may as well get a confirmation from you if I can while I’m here.”

            “I’ll come if I’m not busy barfing my guts out, as I often am.” When Liam’s alarm must have registered on his face, Zayn cackles. “I don’t do that too often anymore, I’m joking. But I will come.” A considering look crosses his face. “I dunno if I have anything wear to impress the Americans, but if we get one of Louis’ suits altered—”

            “We’ll get you fitted for your own,” Liam says, waving a hand impatiently. “If there’s nothing else useful about being the king, it’s that I have some fucking fantastic tailors. No point in not using them. The second question about council meetings. Lou and Haz and Nialler all are on the king’s council—”

            “I want in,” Zayn says instantly, and Liam grins.

            “The next meeting is the same day as the dinner next week. You sure you’re up for it?”

            “The day I can’t do two things in one day is the day I die,” Zayn says. “I want in. Are they like the Small Council meetings in Game of Thrones?”

            “Less murder, less incest, otherwise generally the same idea.” Liam sighs. “Not really. It’s mainly squabbling over how to budget the very limited resources we have. Very unglamorous.”

            “Unglamorous is my middle name,” Zayn says, which makes Liam laugh because he looks like a Gucci model, even now when he’s tired and disgruntled after physical therapy.

            “Okay, I’ll tentatively say you’re coming to both, then,” Liam says. “You seeing Ned today?”

            “Tomorrow. See you in yours later?”

            “See you then.” He almost bends down for a brief kiss out of habit, and then remembers himself. “I’ll get me and my pathetic excuses for seeing you back up to the throne room where we belong. Later, Z.”

            Zayn hobbles back to his therapy, and Liam—true to his word—goes back up to the throne room. There are few petitioners today, so his mind has plenty of time to wander back to Zayn, as he so often finds it doing.

            The other man has been seeing Ned for a few weeks now, and been in physical therapy for a little longer than that; the improvement in him is massive and visible. He’s put on some weight, stands up taller, can walk short to moderate distances without the wheelchair, and spends less time in the hospital. More importantly to Liam, however, is the fact that Zayn smiles more now, says he’s sleeping better, and can even make the occasional joke about his predicament like he’d been doing today. It’s vastly encouraging—even though Liam doesn’t want to be too optimistic or push Zayn beyond his capabilities, he’s confident that Zayn will eventually be able to get back to his former state. Physically, at least. He’s less sure of the progress being made with Ned, but that’s mainly just because those sessions are between Zayn and Ned and will stay that way.

            Mostly, though, what consumes his mind as he sits on the throne is their newly blossoming relationship: the way they’ll go out of their way just so they can see each other, the way they spend nearly every night in each other’s chambers (not doing anything much, or at least for now), the way they can talk for hours and never get bored. Theirs is a complicated relationship at the best of times but when it’s just him and Zayn it feels magically simple: two people understanding each other in a world that has not made it easy for them to be understood.

            It’s not like there are never issues, though. Zayn disappears inside his head for far too long sometimes, and when he comes out he looks tired and pained, like whatever he was thinking about drained him of everything inside. He can’t keep up with the other boys, despite the improvements he’s made, and although Liam knows Zayn would never admit it, he’s having trouble being the “weak” one when he’s spent so much of his life being the strongest, most dangerous person in the room. Liam, for his part, is busy all the time. That’s the main issue with being king—it’s like the country sucks up every bit of his day and leaves him exhausted every night.

            But they struggle on despite all of this. The thing they both do best is fight, and they’re not about to give up now.

***

            “Tell me about people with PTSD in relationships,” Zayn says. “Because you’ve given me an awful lot of stuff to read about how to deal with it, and not one of them ever talks about waking up in the middle of night screaming next to someone you love.”

            “I wasn’t aware you’re in a relationship,” Ned says mildly.

            “That’s because your job is to help me with my mental health, not my love life.”

            “The two are actually very often closely intertwined,” Ned says. “People with PTSD often have trouble with intimacy, Zayn. They’re afraid to get close to someone because they’re afraid of being hurt again.” He pauses, shuffling his papers. Zayn’s decided that this must be a nervous tic of his, because they never seem to need shuffling. “I don’t know if that’s going to be the case with you. Your trauma doesn’t stem from the betrayal of someone you know and love, as it does with most abuse. However, many soldiers with PTSD often have trouble being in relationships—romantic or not—when they return from war. They feel like they can’t relate to normal people anymore, that they’ve seen things no one else has, that they’re permanently damaged, and all this affects their ability to be in a healthy relationship. And while I’m sure you can recognize some of those symptoms in yourself, this is again a special case. Almost everyone in the country experienced the war in some form. Almost everyone has seen something terrible, has experienced the death of a loved one, has been damaged in some way. You definitely had a much worse experience than most, but I think you’ve been finding it easier to relate to people than most PTSD sufferers do because you can see some of your pain in everyone. Does that sound correct to you?”

            Zayn nods. “It helps other people too, I think—just in understanding why sometimes—I can’t quite be—normal. They don’t even need to know exactly what happened to understand why I sometimes need a wheelchair and stuff.”

            “Exactly. So I think you may find it easier than most to form relationships that are helpful rather than harmful to your condition. Of course, it all depends on you and your partner. Things fluctuate from person to person. But I’m confident that you’ve chosen someone you’re close to and trust, yes?”

            Zayn nods again and doesn’t elaborate on who it is.

            “The matter of sexual intimacy is another altogether. Sometimes PTSD can lead to sexual dysfunctions or diminished libido.”

            “Trust me,” Zayn says, “that’s not an issue.”

            Ned laughs. “That’s good to hear. I would just suggest talking with your partner before you try anything—triggers are often waiting in the least likely of places, and sex can be one of them. Your trauma is not sex-related, so there is a higher chance that you’ll be able to have healthy and normal sexual relationships with other people, but you can never be too careful. It’s better that you and your partner have a thorough understanding of the potential mental consequences of intercourse. Being that vulnerable and intimate in both a physical and emotional way needs to be treated carefully.”

            “That was very informative,” Zayn says. “You should be a sex ed teacher.”

            “If this gig falls through, I’ll consider it,” Ned says, and they share a comfortable laugh, the kind that Zayn is finding himself falling into more and more often, because apparently even eighteen months of dying will not stop him from being resurrected.

            “How are you doing with opening up to your friends? I’m understand that you’re having some difficulty, but that’s to be expected.”

            “It’s hard,” Zayn says, feeling the laughter between them fall to the floor. It’s hard—so goddamn hard. Even the smallest thing he’s shared with the boys have come at a great emotional price. “I think I’m getting better with it? But—you know.”

            “That’s to be expected, like I said. It’s good that you can do it at all.”

            “I just—I don’t want them to know,” Zayn says. The words are thick and difficult in his mouth. He’s never said this aloud. “I don’t want them to see me like that—does that make sense? I don’t want them to realize how—how terrible it was, because—it would make it more real. It’s bad enough that it happened. I don’t want it to live inside them, too.”

            “That’s not an uncommon feeling,” Ned says gently. “You have to remember that opening up will help everyone. They will understand you better, and you will not have to carry the burden alone. The longer you let it live inside you with no outlet, the more poisonous it will get.”

            “I know.”

            “Can I ask you a question?”

            Zayn sighs. Their session is almost done, and Ned always closes by asking him a question. Sometimes it’s as easy as describing how he feels that day in one word, sometimes it’s something as difficult as explaining the motives behind his decision to sacrifice himself for Liam. “Go ahead, then.”

            “Can you tell me,” Ned says carefully, “one thing that happened to you while you were imprisoned? I don’t want you to be graphic or go into detail or tell me something that will be too painful to recall. I just want you to get one thing out of yourself so it’s not weighing you down.”

            Zayn swallows. He has never, ever, ever talked about the specifics of what happened—not even with the doctors, mainly because all the evidence they needed was already on his body.

            “I’ve always been afraid of water,” he says finally, clenching his hands together so they don’t shake. “I can’t swim or anything, always hated the thought of drowning. I don’t know if they knew that, or—anyway. There wasn’t a lot of water—you can drown in six inches of water or something like that if you’re being held down, you know, and drowning—drowning fucking hurts, and I—” His hands are shaking anyway. His lungs are filled with water again, his mouth is filled with the bubbles of the screams no one ever heard. “Anyway. People take breathing for granted.”

            “Thank you, Zayn,” Ned says, and his eyes are almost sad as he stands up to shake Zayn’s hand like he always does when they’re done for the day. “I know that was hard to do. Do you want to stay another moment to collect yourself?”

            Zayn draws in a deep breath. Lets it out. “No. I’m okay. Thank you, though.”

            “Do you feel any better?”

            He examines his feelings, poking at the memory to see if it still hurts like a bruise. It does, but he also feels an acute sense of relief. The feeling that someone at least _knows_. The feeling that those screams have finally been heard. “Maybe. Reckon it’ll take a while.”        

            “I imagine it will. You’re taking the first steps, though, Zayn. I’m proud of you. You should be proud of you.”

            “I am,” Zayn says, and the moment it’s out of his mouth he realizes it’s true. “Thanks, Ned.”

            When he walks out of Ned’s office with his head up, he is still conscious of every breath he takes—not because he feels they are numbered, but because he is grateful for them.

***

            When they walk into the council’s meeting room, Zayn looks a little surprised. Liam fights down trepidation—he has no idea how this is going to go down—and excitement—he can’t wait for Zayn’s reactions to the bullshit that happens in the council every week. He has the feeling they’re going to be priceless.

            “Liam,” Zayn says under his breath, “I’m impressed.”

            “Um,” Liam says just as quietly, “why?”

            “This must be the only legal political meeting I’ve been a part of where I’m not a token minority. I’m so proud of you for not only hiring old white blokes.”

            Liam has indeed taken pains to ensure that the council is made up of people of the widest range of ages, genders, and races he could manage. “Don’t be too proud—it wasn’t quite my first instinct. The first draft of the list of members was actually all old white blokes. And then I realized that if you were there you’d be ripping me a new one for allowing socially engrained biases to affect the government. Because that’s the sort of thing you always say. So I changed it. And I’ve been trying to not allow my socially engrained biases to affect the government ever since.”

            Zayn is still beaming. “That,” he says, “is so hot. I love a man who checks his privilege.”

            Liam just about chokes at that, but quickly recovers. Zayn winks at him and sits down, taking the scrutiny of the other members with good humor. Liam takes a deep breath and raises his voice. “Is everyone ready to start?”

            Everyone murmurs in assent, and Liam takes his place at the head of the table.

            “We’re joined today by Zayn Malik, who will become a permanent member of this council,” he says, gesturing to Zayn, who’s seated on his direct left. “Sir Malik is a war hero who has been recently been recovered from imprisonment by the Circle. He was instrumental in the success of the revolution by giving up his freedom and nearly his life for mine at a time when few people thought I was fit to live, let alone be king. He is the reason we are all sitting here today, and I trust that you will all value his opinion and insight in the matters we discuss.”

            “I’m not all His Majesty makes me out to be,” Zayn says drily. “He’s just trying to make me blush.”

            There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, and Liam feels a burst of pride. This crowd is hard to please at the best of times—getting a laugh out of them is like pulling a tooth, even when you’re the king and they’re required to think your jokes are funny. Apparently Zayn really can make anyone fall in love with him, even a bunch of snobby politicians who’ve just met him.

            “I’m not exaggerating in the slightest,” Liam says warmly. “But to business, yes? What’s the first matter on the table today? Subsidies for the agricultural corporations, correct?”

            Ideas bounce around the table for the next two hours or so, and by the time they’ve come to a decision about nearly everything, they should all really be getting ready for the state dinner with the Americans already. There’s still one more issue on the table, however, and that’s the proposal—offered up by Louis and seconded by Zayn—that the nobles funnel some of their private security money into rebuilding depilated neighborhoods in their duchies. Most of the nobles on the councils have agreed to it, but Duke Orlington (that contrary fucking bastard) is point blank refusing. Liam could technically still make it a law, but it’d look bad to go over the head of one of the most senior members of the council. People might start saying he’s assuming Simon’s brand of kingship.

            “I will not compromise my personal safety in order to give a few commoners a neighborhood park,” the duke is saying. Liam massages his temples, praying for patience. “I assure you that my people will be far more content with their protector being safe than their hovels being refurbished. My duties do not include interior design, Your Majesty. Asking this of me is insulting.”

            Liam opens his mouth to respond, but Zayn beats him there.

            “The last time I checked, Your Grace,” he says lazily, “your duties include protecting the people in your duchy. Now, I’m a little out of touch with things—you’ll forgive me; I was locked in an underground bunker for a year and a half—so that may have changed. Has it changed, Your Grace?”

            “No,” Orlington says angrily. “This is not protecting, Sir Malik. This is a luxury, and I—”

            “—then I don’t see what the problem, is” Zayn cuts in. “I assume you’ve been down into your duchy and know what the conditions are there?”

            “Well, no, but I—”

            “Oh,” Zayn says smoothly, “I’m sorry; I was assuming you’ve been doing your job. You’re supposed to check up on the people you’re in charge of, you know. If you haven’t, though, I can’t blame you for not knowing what it’s like. I, however, do—you’re in charge of a northern district, yes? May I tell you what it’s like up there? People are very resentful of the fact that their roads are nearly impossible to drive on, that there are higher rates of crime than in the rest of the country, and that there are neighborhoods which haven’t changed much since the revolution. Ah yes,” he adds, catching Orlington’s expression, “I did my research before showing up. Pity you didn’t do the same. But in any case, I think it’d be in your favor if you agreed to this bill and spent a little bit of your near-limitless funds on this proposal. You may find that your people like you a good deal more than they do now.”

            There’s a very long silence. Liam is fairly sure that few people were expecting the call out of the century from the newest member of the council, but he himself is not surprised at all. Zayn’s been itching for something to crusade for weeks now. He can’t pull triggers or run missions anymore, so it’s only to be expected that he’s made his next battleground the council room. It’s one of the reasons Liam asked him to join.

            “Shall I call another vote on this issue, then?” he asks mildly, surveying the still-shocked table. Louis looks like he’s bursting with pride; he and Zayn are exchanging significant and triumphant looks. Liam resolves that after that speech, no one will complain if he passes this law even if Orlington doesn’t vote for it. The duke’s the only one who will be walking out of here looking bad today.

            But that’s not necessary. The proposal is unanimously agreed upon, and he signs the bill on the table with a triumphant flourish. Another one for the people. Another step forward.

            He and Zayn share the briefest, most private grin across the table. Liam feels like king of the fucking world.

***

            The state dinner is a well-mannered and easy-going affair. Liam likes Americans—they’re full of themselves and tight-fisted, but they mostly have a sense of humor and an open mind. Most happily, however, the dinner is not a political affair; it’s just a celebration of the bonds between their countries now that a better government has been implemented in England. This means that no one is unhappy, and everyone can get a little drunk (which Liam does not, because that would be unseemly).

            But the real reason why he’s on top of the world tonight is not because of the Americans, or about the dinner, and even about the bill earlier today. It’s because Zayn is there—not even in a wheelchair, but walking around himself—looking fucking spectacular in a suit that makes him look like a god.

            Liam is lucky that most people here are tipsy enough that they aren’t scrutinizing him too closely, because he can’t rip his eyes away from Zayn. You can probably see his enamored expression in Australia.

            Zayn for his part, has made quite a splash among the company here. A devastatingly handsome war hero with a tragic past is apparently a popular commodity among all walks of life, because Liam barely gets a word in with him all night. (Maybe that’s for the best; he’d probably melt into a puddle of lovesick ridiculousness if he was allowed to be near Zayn for more than a few seconds). Zayn’s status does not go unnoticed by Louis, who saunters up to Liam halfway through the night and murmurs, “Our boy has done quite well for himself today, hasn’t he? I think we’ll make a proper politician out of Knockout yet.”

            Liam smiles at the old reminder of Zayn’s prowess with his fists. “I reckon we will. It’ll be good for him to start doing his fighting on the council floor.” He can see that—social activist and council member Zayn Malik, knight and hero of the people. Nothing would please him as well.

            The night draws to a fine finish around one in the morning, with Liam and the American ambassador making long-winded toasts to each other, and then everyone trickles out of the ball room and retires to their rooms.

            No one notices Zayn following Liam out.

            “You looked so good tonight, babe,” Liam says softly as the door to Liam’s chambers shuts behind them and Zayn leans back up against it, eyes half closed and tie undone. “That suit looks so fucking good on you.”

            “You were right,” Zayn says with a shrug. “Your tailors are definitely a major perk of the kingship. I feel like a king meself.”

            “You look like one,” Liam says reverently. “Come get undressed? We can go to bed afterwards.”

            “That was so completely not subtle, I—”

            Liam flushes, realizing what that had sounded like, “Ah, shit, Zayn, that’s not how a meant it.”

            “Wasn’t it? Wouldn’t mind if it was, babe.”

            “Can you—” Liam hesitates, not wanted to offend. “Can you even, like—is it okay for you to be—”

            “Oh, for God’s sake,” Zayn says, straightening and reaching out to undo Liam’s tie as well. “I talked about it with Ned, alright? Already had the sex talk. I should be fine.”

            “Are you sure?”

            “Of course I’m bloody sure. If something happens—flashback, stitch splitting open, heart attack, sudden need to shit—I’ll tell you and we’ll stop, yeah? I want you, Liam. If you don’t want me then say so and I won’t be offended, but—”

            “I want you,” Liam interrupts. “I just want to make sure that you can, you know, that you’re okay with everything. You’re sure you’re going to be okay? You’ll tell me if anything hurts or if you’re going to—”

            “I’ll tell you,” Zayn says firmly.

            “Want to lay down any ground rules?”

            Zayn thinks for a moment. “Be gentle,” he says. “Because if a stitch really does end up splitting, it would be awkward to tell the doctors that the reason why is because I was fucking the king.” Liam snorts and he grins. “And just—use my name a lot? I—it would help just. You know. Keep me grounded. Don’t want to have that awkward moment where you suddenly start having prison flashbacks in the middle of having sex.”

            Liam reaches and hooks his arms around Zayn’s waist, pulling him in so their chests are nearly touching. “I can do that,” he says. “My rules are that you have to tell me if anything is wrong, and if anything feels good. Just talk to me, yeah? Let me inside your head.”

            “I can do that,” Zayn echoes.

            Liam grins, pats him gently on the arse. “Let’s go get undressed.”

            They walk shoulder to shoulder into Liam’s massive closet, shoving and teasing each other lightly. The walls in there are covered in floor-to-ceiling mirrors facing each other, so wherever Liam looks he sees a thousand reflections himself and Zayn next to each other with their beautiful suits and undone ties and slightly rumpled hair. The thought of fucking in here, in front of all their reflections and in the dim golden light, is suddenly and intensely erotic despite the fact that he’d planned to do it in the bedroom.

            He turns away from Zayn—it’s pathetic that he’s getting hard when they haven’t even touched each other yet—and unloops his tie from his neck before taking off his jacket. His movements are swift, methodical, economic, but Zayn doesn’t make any move to follow his lead; Liam can see the other man’s reflection leaning against the mirror like he had against the door earlier, hands in his pockets and eyes half-lidded again.

            “What’re you doing?” Liam asks without turning around; their eyes meet in the mirror.

            “Watching you get undressed,” Zayn says unashamedly. “And quite enjoying the show despite the fact that you haven’t bared any skin yet.”

            “Well,” Liam says, his voice slow and rough even to his own ears, “I reckon I better bare some, then, yeah?”

            “Much appreciated,” Zayn says, and then both laugh even as Liam reaches to unbutton his shirt.

            A moment later, when Liam is down to his boxers and Zayn is still fully clothed, they’re both half-hard and not even touching yet.

            “You,” Zayn murmurs as Liam turns and faces him, “are quite beautiful, Your Majesty.”

            “Am I?” Liam asks, walking over to Zayn and carefully sliding his dark blue jacket off his shoulders; Zayn shivers and lets it fall, relaxing under Liam’s touch. “You’re quite possibly a god, then, Zayn. Look at you.” He leans in, kisses Zayn’s jawline, whispers it onto his skin: _look at you._

            “In here?” Zayn asks hoarsely. “I swear to God I will not make it to the bedroom, Liam.”

            “You read my mind,” Liam says, and begins unbuttoning Zayn’s shirt, slowly, his fingers lingering on the warm skin of Zayn’s chest. Zayn is a miracle; he can never forget this, but never more so than when he’s touching him like this, a tangible and living person in front of him.

            “These mirrors are . . .”

            “Stunning?” Liam suggests. “There are so many of us, and I still can’t get enough of looking at you, Zayn.”

            “Cheesy,” Zayn whispers, but Liam catches him smiling, quietly and privately, before he turns his head.

            They’re gorgeous together, wild eyed and luxuriant against the mirror Zayn is leaning against, Liam’s hand braced by his head. Zayn is now only in his pants, which Liam has unzipped so he can palm him through his boxers; they’re both hard and eager for it.

            “Gonna make you feel so good, Zayn,” Liam whispers against the bare skin of Zayn’s neck; Zayn shivers and pulls him closer, his body slim and scarred and _alive_ where it presses up against Liam’s. They both hiss at the sudden relief of friction when their crotches rub together, jerking away automatically before they grind together desperately, the pleasure turning their bones into liquid fire. “So good, babe.”

            “Gonna fuck me slow?” Zayn asks, his voice low and desperate in a way that makes it Liam’s turn to shiver. “Gonna suck me off here so we can both see how pretty you look with your cheeks hollowed out? Gonna make me look at how wrecked I get when you’re inside me?” His breath hitches when Liam steps back and pulls down his boxers, his eyes eating Liam’s body up hungrily. “God, babe, in this light, you look—” He breaks off and shakes his head. “C’mere.”

            They’re all over each other, mouths and hands everywhere. Liam feels like Zayn is burning him with every touch, but if they pull away he swears he will die—he needs to be touching Zayn, needs it like air and water and food—Zayn is naked now too; how exactly, he’s not sure, but he loves it—

            He drops to his knees in front of Zayn in a move that is slightly painful but extremely effective given Zayn’s sharp intake of breath.

            “You good?” he asks softly, looking up at his boyfriend. “Gonna bring you right to the edge, Zayn. Gonna make you wait to come until I fuck you.”

            “Fuck, your dirty talk.” Zayn groans and leans his head back against the mirror, the pale expanse of his vulnerable throat marked with the beginnings of a hickey. “Get on with it, for God’s sake.”

            Liam starts slowly; he’s a little out of practice after all, and he wants it to be good for Zayn. Judging from the sounds Zayn is making, there are no complaints in that department, however; Zayn keeps letting out soft moans that go straight to Liam’s dick and whispering occasion words of praise, fingers looking for purchase in Liam’s short hair. The soft and immediate response he can draw out of Zayn by going down further or swirling his tongue are intoxicating; if Liam could spend the rest of his life making Zayn sound like that, he would—it’s so arousing that he’s stroking himself with one hand even as he keeps sucking Zayn off, a few muffled moans vibrating again the other man’s dick and making him groan.

            When he feels like he himself is about to come—how Zayn hasn’t yet, he has no idea—Liam pulls back, lips swollen and glossy. He looks like a mess, but to be fair, Zayn does too at this point, and the way they look together is nothing short of breathtaking. They’re sweaty and messy and gorgeous.

            “Lube and condom’s in the bedroom, babe,” Liam says. “Let me go get it and then—”

            Zayn groans, shutting his eyes. “God,” he says. “Yes. Hurry.”

            Liam stumbles to the bedroom, gropes around in the dresser until he’s located the lube bottle and condom, and then hurries back, his unattended cock throbbing. Zayn still has his eyes closed, but is now stroking himself slowly, the slick sound of his hand against his cock audible in the thick golden air. It’s quite possibly the most beautiful thing Liam has ever seen.

            “Zayn,” he says helplessly, because that’s all there is to say, and Zayn opens his eyes and turns to look at him with a smile that could set the world on fire.

            “Babe,” he replies, his voice warm and affectionate, and then, for the second time: “C’mere.”      

            Liam does, and they fold up against each other, chins on each other’s shoulders, arms around each other’s waists. It’s safe and quiet and beautiful, and maybe—just maybe—it will be enough for Zayn to never see anything but this moment when he closes his eyes again.

            “Zayn,” Liam says again, leaning in to kiss him because he doesn’t think there’s been quite enough of that yet—although to be fair he’s quite sure that he could spend the rest of his life kissing Zayn and still not think it’s enough—and feeling Zayn smile against his mouth like he can’t keep his happiness inside of himself. “M’gonna open you up first, okay? Turn around for me.”

            Zayn turns so his front is pressed up against the cool surface of the mirror; Liam can see the misted outlines of where their bodies have rested against the glass as he moves. The curve of his back is spectacular, especially where it ends in the faint swell of his arse, which Liam palms before slicking up his fingers and gently pressing them against Zayn’s entrance.

            Zayn hisses at first, hole fluttering at the unexpected sensation, but after a moment he relaxes a little and presses back against Liam’s hand, letting out a softly pleased noise when Liam works a finger inside, crooking it against the tightness so he can add another.

            “Still good, Z?” he asks gently, watching Zayn’s fingers curl uselessly against the mirror; their reflection is repeated a thousand times over the walls.

            “Still good,” Zayn mutters. “Add the second one, Leeyum.”

            Liam does as he’s told, working Zayn open and stretching him out before pressing in harder to find his sweet spot. Zayn groans when he hits it, arching his back shamelessly to push Liam’s fingers further against it. Liam rubs there as best as he can, watching Zayn’s cock twitch where it’s trapped between his stomach and the mirror.

            “ _Fuck_ , Liam—God, right there—”

            Liam adds a third finger, smiling when Zayn pushes back against him again. It doesn’t take much longer before he’s pulling out—Zayn clenching and whimpering at the sudden emptiness—and rolling on the condom, fingers sliding together as he lubes himself and adds more to Zayn’s already slick entrance.

            “Ready?” he asks, kissing the back of Zayn’s neck right where his fantail tattoo begins. “Y’been so good for me, Zayn. Love you so much.”

            Zayn smiles, his eyes scrunching up like they do only when he’s very happy. Liam’s heart warms. “M’ready. Love you too.”

            Liam pushes in slow and gentle, making sure to adjust himsef when Zayn moves a little but stopping only when he’s all the way in. They’re both panting and eager; Zayn is tight and wet and warm around him, clenching a little before relaxing to accommodate Liam’s thickness.

            “God, Zayn,” Liam says hoarsely, “God—fuck—need to move, is that—”

            “Do it,” Zayn says instantly, moving his hips a little to create friction for them both; Liam lets out an embarrassing whine.

            He starts off shallow, Zayn moving in with him until they’ve picked up a steady rhythm together, meeting each other halfway through Liam’s thrusts. Liam reaches down to put a hand on Zayn’s cock, giving him a few quick strokes before cupping his balls and making him whimper again. It’s all so _much_ —the steady and intense fire in his belly that’s building with every thrust, the repeated image of them desperate and wrecked and joined together until it’s all he can see, the faint but erotic sound of skin against skin, the smell of sex and sweat and worn-off cologne, the taste of Zayn that still lingers like a heavy musk on his tongue.

            “Being so good, Zayn,” he whispers, kissing Zayn between the shoulder blades, right where, if he were an angel, he’d have wings. “Taking it so well, babe. Love you so much.”

            Zayn mumbles an incoherent response; the combination of Liam’s hand at his groin and Liam’s cock in his arse have left him boneless and blissed-out. If Liam weren’t holding him, he’d probably wouldn’t be able to stand—he’s so close to the edge that his dick is pulsing in Liam’s hand.

            “Almost there, Z,” Liam says, increasing the pace and depth of his stokes until he’s nearly pulling out all the way every time.

            “Want you to come first,” Zayn says, his voice wrecked.

            “M’almost there,” he repeats, pushing into Zayn and nudging the tip of his cock against Zayn’s sweet spot. Zayn moans, head thrown back and back arched. “Almost—”

            His orgasm takes even him by surprise; he goes over the edge at the speed of light, his vision going black for a second and his body going limp. Zayn comes seconds later, shivering delicately against him before spilling over Liam’s hand and clenching around his cock. It’s messy and spectacular and perfect, and Liam is so, so gone for this man.

            Afterwards, they clean up as best as they can, but there’s not much they can do to hide the evidence—Liam finds himself surprisingly uncaring. Then there’s a quick mutual shower where they’re both definitely too tired to have round two, and then finally falling into the blissfully clean, warm bed. They’re passed out in seconds, curled around each other like their very atoms are drawn together, sharing mumbled _I love you_ ’s back and forth until both their voices fade out to long, even breaths.

            Liam doesn’t let go of Zayn once the whole night.

***

            Zayn wakes up feeling calmer than he has in—well, a very long time. He doesn’t feel like the world is ending. He feels safe, like he’s just a normal person waking up next to his boyfriend on a normal day.

            _Safe_. There’s a feeling he hasn’t had in forever.

            “You awake?” he mumbles, turning so he can see Liam, who still has his arm thrown across Zayn’s stomach protectively.

            “Barely,” Liam mutters back, his face smushed into the pillow and eyes screwed shut against the light coming in from the window. “M’still so fuckin’ tired.”

            Zayn smiles, rolls over all the way so he’s facing Liam, and snuggles so he’s further under his arm. “Go back to sleep, then, yeah?”

            “Can’t.” Liam yawns, pries open one eyes. “Gotta get up and do things. M’the king.”

            “Tragic,” Zayn says. “I was planning on sucking you off, and then—”

            “Oh, shut up. I’ll never get anything done if it was up to you.”        

            “I mean,” Zayn says. “ _Some_ things, maybe. Like—”

            “Do not finish that sentence.” Liam rolls over so he’s on his back, facing the ceiling stretching luxuriously. “How do you feel? After yesterday?”

            “Still a bit tired. Long day, you know.”

            “I meant after last night.”

            “Oh. I feel good.” He turns his face into the pillow so he doesn’t have to look at Liam when he says it. “I think I needed that? To be close to someone like that and not get hurt. It helped. No panic attack this morning.”

            Liam snorts and gently coaxes him out of the pillow with two fingers under his chin. “Who would have known that sex could be therapeutic? Let’s do this every day.”

            “See, this is what I was saying. You could give up your kingly duties in the name of helping an unfortunate yet resilient war hero heal his wounds. It would be very noble of you.”

            “I’m not going to lie, that’s very tempting. I think there might be some stigma around it once people found out that all we would be doing would be fucking all day, though.”

            Zayn laughs and presses a kiss into Liam’s shoulder; Liam grins down at him fondly and scrubs a palm over his still-shaved head.

            “You’re one hundred percent sure you’re okay still?” Liam asks after a moment. “Not just saying that?”

            “One thousand percent,” Zayn says, because even though he lies about how he’s feeling quite a bit, he’s telling the truth now. This is the happiest Zayn has been in a while: he feels more normal, more grounded than he’s been since being captured. It seems that the very things about sex Ned says can sometimes hurt people with PTSD are the very things that have helped Zayn feel more like himself. Maybe having that kind of physical and emotional intimacy brought him back to himself, helped remind him that not all contact has to be painful, helped him release tension in the same way laughing or crying does. But he doesn’t want to overanalyze it. He’s found that picking apart a good thing too much can often ruin it; better just to take it as it is.

            “Maybe I’ll stay in bed a little longer,” Liam says thoughtfully. “Just a little bit won’t hurt, yeah? I think this is a worthy cause.”

            “Can’t you call off business until later today? I’m sure plenty of your advisors are still sleeping off their hangovers from last night.”

            “That’s true—they’ll see it as merciful, not irresponsible.”

            Zayn grins as Liam leans over and dials an assistant to send out briefs. He gets to spend a whole morning in bed with his beautiful boyfriend; a whole morning to forget everything else and be happy for a bit.

            “God,” Liam says, rolling back over to Zayn and pulling the covers over them both when he’s done with the call. “I can’t remember the last time I got to sleep in. Can we just cuddle and nap and order up breakfast? I’ll take you up on the morning blowjob some other day.”

            “That sounds perfect,” Zayn says.

            They spend the rest of their sun-soaked morning doing just that: dozing in the safety of each other’s arms and occasionally waking up to eat parts of the breakfast they order. It’s quiet and comfortable and exactly what Zayn needs this morning.

            No one, he thinks, has ever had a love story quite as spectacular as theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES THEY FINALLY DID THE DO. NINETEEN CHAPTERS AND NINETY THOUSAND WORDS IN IT FINALLY HAPPENED. 
> 
> I hope it was satisfactory for everyone. I was very nervous about approaching it right, but I'm pretty pleased with how it turned out so hopefully you will be too!
> 
> One last thing before I go, because it's late and I'm tired: if you are one of the people who follow me on tumblr, pls be aware that i am switching blogs (as explained [here](http://newbluehead.tumblr.com/post/145179255405/listen-up-pals-im-deleting)) so if you want to still see my tumblr drabbles and other posts, you should be following my [new blog](http://newbluehead.tumblr.com). If you are not one of the people who follow me on tumblr currently but still want to follow the new blog, i would happy to have you join the party. I'm following back until monday, so feel free to drop by. 
> 
> That's all for this week guys!! Hope you liked the chapter, and i will catch you next week :D


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh ok hi guys i'm tired as hell and it's not even that late rip. i have my final exams next week so yall better be sending me good vibes for the next seven days ok??? i gonna need them D:
> 
> anyway, i'm not too crazy about this chapter mainly because i didn't really stick to my outline and just sort of did whatever and now i think i may have to add another chapter to this mess so i can fit in everything, buT i hope you guys like it at least?? i don't know ok my life is a mess and i'm tired and all i can do is hope you guys enjoy the awful rambling product of it ok go read

Zayn hates hospitals. He particularly hates waking up in them when he has no memory of going to sleep in them—small holes in his memory happen more often than he’d like these days (one of the more disconcerting effects of his injuries) but coming to in a hospital for no discernible reason means that something bad happened in the gap between that moment and his last memory, and despite everything, he’d rather remember a bad thing than have the absence of it haunt him. Moments like these are too much like his time in the cell, when he’d sometimes wake up bleeding and have no idea how it happened.

            In any case: he’s in a hospital now, and he’s not sure why. The last thing he remembers with any clarity is stepping into the shower, which doesn’t help at all, and there’s no one in the room to ask. It’s especially freaking him out because he’s got an oxygen mask on, which he hasn’t had since his very first few days in the hospital back when he’d just gotten out and everything was still up in the air concerning whether he was actually going to live or not. The mask actually really makes him claustrophobic, but this is not a movie and contrary to what everyone thinks, he does not have a death wish, so he’s not going to take it off and rip out his IV and start walking around. He’s spent enough time in hospitals by now that someone is going to walk in sooner or later, and that everything will be explained then; no need to be dramatic and stupid to make statement. He just wishes it wouldn’t take so goddamn long.

            To make himself feel better, he catalogues his symptoms: throbbing chest, sore throat, trouble breathing, raging headache. He must have gotten sick; some enterprising virus has probably taken advantage of his compromise immune system and landed him here. It was bound to happen at some point, honestly; he’s just glad he’s still breathing, albeit through a machine.

            “Ah, I see you’re awake, Sir Malik,” a voice says, jolting him out of his thoughts. One of the doctors he’s worked with before is in the room; he’s a short, kind man with a beard and a turban that always matches his tie.

            “S’just . . . Zayn,” Zayn says through the monitored breaths the mask is making him take. “What . . . what happened?”

            The doctor laughs a little, making a note on his clipboard. “Well, my next question was going to ask if you remembered what happened, but I suppose that answers that. We’re not exactly sure what happened, because you were alone at the time of the incident and were found later, but it seems that you either passed out or had a nasty fall in the shower.”

            “That . . . landed me . . . in . . . hospital?”

            “Would you like a notepad, Sir Malik? I understand talking can be difficult right now, and you should be resting your throat anyway.”

            Zayn nods, and the doctor hands him a notepad and a pen. The first thing he writes: _falling in the shower put me in the hospital? I must be weaker than I thought._

            “Not quite. It seems that whatever happened—it’s most probable that you passed out, given the circumstances, but again, it’s possible you fell—put you under for enough time for the shower head to get a fair amount of water in your lungs. Given the fact that you were lying face up directly under the spray, it’s a miracle you didn’t inhale more, but it was still enough that effectively, you nearly drowned. You were brought in and then developed pneumonia within twenty four hours. That’s why you’re in the hospital; the original damage wasn’t terrible, but with your weakened immune system, the pneumonia was harder on you than we would have liked.”

            _Who found me?_

            “The king, I believe. He went into your chambers to check up on you and deliver some papers for the next council meeting, heard the shower running, and decided to wait for you to come out rather than just leaving the papers and going. Thank God he did, too, because after a while he realized something must have been wrong, and went into the bathroom to make sure you were all right. Gave him a nasty scare, too, I believe—he was very distraught when he brought you in.”

            Zayn revises this story a little in his head: Liam walking in, hearing him in the shower, and deciding to join him; poking his head around the curtain with a cheeky _guess who it is_ before seeing Zayn crumpled on the shower floor.

_Where is His Majesty now? And everyone else?_

            “His Majesty is holding court, which I believe he was extremely reluctant to do with you in your current condition. By everyone else, I assume you mean Dukes Horan and Styles, and Sir Tomlinson—they’re waiting outside, but we can’t let them in until you’re a bit stronger. We don’t want outside bacteria getting into your system and making things worse.”

            “They’re . . . my family,” Zayn rasps out, and the doctor looks disapproving.

            “We wouldn’t let family in either, Sir. We need to let you rest up before anyone sees you. I would suggest sending a text to let them know you’re awake and all right; they’ve been bothering us all day.”

            _How long have I been in here?_

            “Two days. You should remember the first one; you slept through most of yesterday, but you were conscious for most of the day you were admitted. But if you can’t remember anything, don’t let it worry you: cleaning up unpleasant memories is one of the ways a brain can deal with trauma.”

            _I’m sure my shower wasn’t THAT traumatizing._

            The doctor laughs. “Of course not. You mentioned forgetting things while you were imprisoned; waking up hurt and not remembering what had happened to you, et cetera. That was your body’s way of trying to protect you from the mental consequences of what was happening to you. Sometimes, the brain thinks that it can escape emotional and mental damage by just deleting a memory by shoving it into the subconscious. This is rarely effective in minimizing trauma except in cases of repeated abuse where certain incidents were worse than others—in other words, your situation was the perfect scenario for your brain to help you by forgetting. As disconcerting or disturbing as I’m sure it was, those times you woke up not knowing what happened were probably the times when you had suffered particularly painful or humiliating torture methods, and forgetting them is actually helping you recover faster now. So the real problem with this coping mechanism, however, isn’t that you forgot those incidents then, it’s that your brain still thinks it should be forgetting mildly unpleasant or frightening things now. Hence you not remembering how you ended up here. Has this been happening a lot?”

            Zayn shakes his head, trying not to panic about the fact that as terrible as the things he remembers are, there are other even more painful and horrifying memories hidden in his subconscious somewhere.

            _Not a lot_ , he writes. _Usually it’s just a few minutes that I suddenly can’t remember. My heart will be racing and I won’t remember what scared me, but I know that something did. I’ll wake up from a dream terrified and not remember what it was. It’s not usually a few whole days like this, and it’s doesn’t happen that often. But I still hate it._

            “You’ll be happy to know, then, that this isn’t going to be permanent. You’ll stop forgetting things eventually when you begin to make a fuller recovery. Like most of the mental consequences of your imprisonment, it’ll fade away by itself with time. In the meantime, Dr. Pepper and I will look into medications for minimizing the effects. As for the fact that this time you skipped over a longer period of time than normal, that’s to be expected. This incident was bad enough to land you in the hospital, after all, so your brain doubtlessly thought it should take extra measures.”

            _Am I ever going to get the memories back?_

            “I afraid I don’t know. It’s different with everyone. I would venture a guess at no, however.”

            _Thanks for filling me in_ , he writes, and then sets down the notepad and pen. The doctor looks at him with an expression halfway between professional curiosity and plain old pity before saying, “I’ll leave you to rest up now. There will be a nurse in here to run some tests and give you meds shortly.”    

            Zayn watches him leave and tries not to feel too sorry for himself. All this means, he tells himself, is that healing has a few unexpected consequences. It’s not like he has brain damage. None of this is permanent. He should probably be grateful he can’t remember the things he remembers.          

            Honestly, it’s no great surprise that this happened. He’s been doing so well lately; it’s only common sense that he was due for a relapse. And it’s probably for the best that he doesn’t remember falling and almost drowning—the thought of having his lungs fill up with water again—the thought of not being able to breathe—       

            He breaks off that line of thought immediately. No point on dwelling on a memory that’s only going to make him start panicking. Instead, he picks up the notepad and pen again, flips to a clean page, and starts doodling.

            He hasn’t drawn in a long time—not since a good deal before his stint with the Circle—and so he’s a little out of practice, but after a few botched attempts he gets back into the swing of it. He’d forgotten how much he used to love this: the cool pen in his hand, the smudge of the ink against his fingers, the clean straight lines on the paper. It’s not like he was ever terribly good—the best he could ever manage were quirky caricatures and comic book style superheroes—but it’s comforting, and that’s what he needs right now. He needs to feel like himself again.

***

            _Stll not in 2 see him. this is some bullshit!!_

_Z is awake apparently. Hopefully we’ll see him soon x_

_L losin his fucking mind here mate not even haz is calming him down. u better get over here quick or ill lose it too_

            Liam takes one deep breath after reading the boys’ texts. Then another. Sometimes it’s hard being the one everyone thinks has all the answers.

            Logically, he knows—as the boys know—that Zayn is going to be fine. The doctors told them right away that it wasn’t fatal, that Zayn wasn’t in any danger, and that they just wanted to keep him for a few days to monitor him. All this does mean that Zayn will be recovering a little slower for a bit, but at least he will be recovering.

            On a whole different level, Liam is still terrified that any minute he’s going to get the call saying that Zayn didn’t make it. It’s still some of that residual terror from two days ago, he thinks. That first moment of finding him has stretched so long that it now covers two whole days: until he sees Zayn alive and awake, his last memory of him will be opening the shower curtain and seeing him motionless on the floor. There are no words for the horror he felt when he saw Zayn like that. When he saw he wasn’t breathing.

_He wasn’t breathing._

            All Liam can remember thinking is _that’s not fair, we just got him back. I just got him back. He can’t be dead; that’s not fair_. And then he’d pulled Zayn out from under the shower head, and he’d gasped, and they’d both started breathing again at the same time.

            Those few seconds in between finding him and pulling him out—those few seconds lasted an entire lifetime.

            Liam now knows what Louis used to feel every time Zayn used to go on a mission. The anxiety, the fear over whether someone you love with your whole being will live or die, is enough to kill you.

            He changes out of the suit he wears for court, gets into joggers—no one is going to care he’s not dressed like a king at the hospital, after all—and heads down to the medical wing of the palace. It’s always been more convenient to have medical care in the actual palace than having to leave and go to a hospital. As long as you don’t need brain surgery, your needs are pretty much covered in the palace, and it’s a blessing when it comes to things like this.

            The boys are already in one of the waiting rooms; Louis is prowling around like a caged tiger with a ferocity that’s belied by the way he has his hands folded over a coffee cup so big it makes him look tiny. Harry is sitting in the corner with one hand over his eyes like he’s trying to sleep. Niall is chatting with a nurse who’s looking far too charmed for her to just be giving him an update on Zayn’s condition. Everyone, of course, stands when Liam enters the room, which makes him feel a little bad from his bleary expression, Harry really was sleeping.

            “As you were,” he says jokingly, and everyone sits back down. “How is he?”

            “Awake,” Harry said. “Didn’t you get my text?”

            “I meant other than that.”

            Niall shrugs helplessly. “They won’t let us in. All we’ve heard is that he’s awake, he’s alive, and there’s no permanent damage. He has pneumonia now, so they’re going to keep him a little longer than we thought at first, and it’s going to slow down his recovery with everything else, but they keep stressing that he’s okay and alive.”

            “They mentioned something about problems with his memory,” Louis says, and the words are so savage that they sound like a death threat rather than a medical update. “They said he can’t remember what happened. That he’s been having memory loss this whole time.” His frantic pacing comes to a halt. “He never told us that. He never told me that.”

            “Louis—”

            “Why does it always have to be _him_? Why does he always end up hurt? Why couldn’t _I_ accidentally fall and nearly drown in the shower? Why do I always have to keep watching my fucking brother nearly die over and over and over again? I can’t fucking take it, I—” Louis turns away abruptly; Harry stands and crosses the room in three quick strides to wrap Louis in his arms.

            The room is quiet for a while, and then Liam says, “I’m going to see if they’ll let us in.”

            Niall nods, but the nurse he was talking to says, “No one going in there for now, Your Majesty. They’re still running tests.”    

            “How many tests does he need?” Niall asks incredulously.

            “I’m sure it’s for the best,” Liam says, trying to sound soothing, but all it does is make Niall roll his eyes and lean back in his chair, looking decidedly less charmed with the nurse than he had before. She doesn’t relent, though, and so it’s time to do what they all do worst: wait.

***

            “If you’d like, we can send His Majesty, Their Graces, and Sir Tomlinson in to see you now,” the doctor says after nearly the entire day has gone by.

            _IT’S ABOUT ~~FUCKING~~ TIME!! Please send them in!!!_ Zayn swears he’ll go crazy if he sits in here for another moment, and if he knows anything about the boys, they’ll go crazy if they sit out there for another moment. They need to see each other.

            They’re so codependent that it’s got to be unhealthy.

            Louis walks in first, and he is all Zayn can see. There’s something about his anger and restlessness that has the ability to take up the whole goddamn room, make him bigger than his body. Louis feels things deeply and strongly, and God, can you ever tell.

            “I cannot _believe_ ,” Louis says loudly, “that they made us wait this long to get in here. It’s utterly unacceptable. And you!” He rounds on Zayn with an eyebrows raised like a knife. “I cannot believe you.”

            _I haven’t even done anything!_

            Louis pauses. “Why are you writing on that?”

            _Breathing mask = hard to talk. Why can’t you believe me_?

            “Because you need to be more careful! Why can’t you be more careful! Why can’t you tell people what’s wrong instead of waiting to end up in the fucking hospital!”

            Zayn sighs—or rather, tries to sigh but can’t because of the mask—and tilts his head back to proffer Louis his jaw. _Give me a good one._

            Louis narrows his eyes and then swings his fist up at Zayn’s face at the speed of light. The nurse squeaks in protest, but Zayn doesn’t even bother tensing for a blow: Louis slows down at the last moment to bump his knuckles against Zayn’s jaw so gently he hardly feels it, the physical equivalent of _I love you but what the fuck._

            “I worry about you,” Louis says quietly. “You know that? I can’t protect you from this, so I worry. I wish you’d take better care of yourself.”

            _Trying_.

            “I know, Z. I know.”

            He steps aside, his anger somewhat diminished now, and lets Zayn see the other boys.

            “I’m just saying,” Niall says, “you lot are _so unhealthy_ in the way you constantly love but also want to beat the shit out of each other. I’ve seen you do that thing where you pretend to punch each other but really don’t about a million times now but I still don’t fucking understand why you do it. I don’t do that shit with my brother.”

            “Fuck off, Horan,” Louis says. “Our spectacular affection is born of extraneous circumstances. While you lot were sitting comfortable in your castles, we were out having our—”

            “Sod off. The only person who did any work in this rebellion was me, and you all know it.” Niall turns to Zayn. “Good to see you awake, bro. Why the notepad?”

            “Breathing mask,” Louis says so Zayn doesn’t have to write it again.

            “Hey, Z,” Harry says, pushing past the other two and sitting down on the edge of his bed. “Gave us all quite the scare back there for a second. Feeling any better?”

            _A bit. Most of the bad stuff is just in my head._

            Harry nods in understanding, and then gestures to Liam. “We brought your bo—His Majesty.”

            Zayn waves at Liam, the corner of his mouth jerking up behind his mask. _Hi_.

            “Hello,” Liam says in this weird formal way that makes it very obvious that he’s very aware of all the nurses in the room watching them. “You worried m-me.”

            And there—that voice break at the end—that’s all Liam. Maybe no one but him and the boys heard it, but Zayn can tell from that one word that Liam’s been out of his mind, that finding Zayn on the shower floor drowning was the worst thing that’s happened in a while.

            (It’s so fucked up that none of them can say it’s the absolute worst thing, that all of them have much worse stories to tell than Zayn’s recent brush with death.)

            _I’m sorry you found me like that._

            “I’m glad I did,” Liam mutters. “If I’d come earlier—”

            Zayn shakes his head emphatically and holds out both arms; Liam wraps him up in an embrace without hesitating. And for one moment—one moment in between drowning and not being able to breathe and not being able to remember and not being able to be—Zayn feels safe.

            That’s all he ever wanted. To feel safe.

***

            Liam has another council meeting two days later; Zayn has been released from the hospital but isn’t going, thank God—he’s not in fighting shape, mental or physical. Liam has the suspicion that he’s been terribly disillusioned about the progress he’s made. No matter how many times he’s told that he will get better still, that the recovery he’s made has been phenomenal, it’s not going to change Zayn’s mind that he’s been put a step back now, and it’s not going to make him feel any better about it.

            The meeting is deeply uneventful, which Liam is grateful for. He doesn’t think he could focus on a real issue right now if he tried. The only thing of import they really talk about is Simon’s upcoming trial, and the trial of one of the Circle’s leaders. They’re both being charged for war crimes, and the Council is trying to come up with a list of witnesses and evidence to use. It’s not as though the problem is that there isn’t enough; it’s that there’s far too much, and they have to sift through it all and decide which ones they should show at the hearing. The decision they come to? Assign everyone a certain amount of documented evidence and witnesses to review. Liam’s very impressed with their problem solving skills, because they rarely ever have an idea this simple and efficient. They almost exempt Liam from having to do it, though, because he’s the king and he’s busy, but he insists on doing some of the work, so he gets some prison security camera footage and a written eyewitness testimony for the case against the Circle.

            When he gets back to his chambers, Zayn is already waiting for him, looking generally pissed off at the world.

            “Do I detect some frustration on my dear lover’s face?” Liam asks after checking around to make sure there are no guards within earshot.

            “You absolutely fucking do,” Zayn says. “How was council?”

            “Boring. Casework, mainly. What’s the matter?”

            “The fact that I’m not allowed to stand up without assistance right now, but in general, an easier question to answer would be what’s not the matter.”

            “Okay, what’s not the matter?”

            “You,” Zayn says, holding out his arms and pulling Liam into his lap. “You’re definitely not the matter.”

            Liam lets out a long breath. He’s never considered himself a terribly big person, but Zayn just feels so tiny beneath him—it’s hard not to be afraid that he’s hurting him just by sitting there.

            “You okay?”

            “Yeah. Just. You know. Trying not to fucking worry so much.”

            “Yeah,” Zayn says softly. “I’m sorry I worried you like that.”

            “You don’t need to apologize. Although, for the record, I do agree with Louis in saying that you need to be more careful. Tell someone when something’s wrong, okay?”

            “I do,” Zayn says. “It’s just—I thought I was doing better. So when I was lightheaded getting into the shower, I guess I just—didn’t think about it. I didn’t think it was a big deal. And before you say anything, I know all about how recovery isn’t a linear process and sometimes you have to take a step back before taking a step forward, and all of that shit now. I went and saw Ned today.”

            “All of that’s right, you know,” Liam says. “You _are_ getting better, Zayn. None of this makes you weak. You’re the strongest fucking person I know, okay?”

            Zayn smiles lopsidedly, that sharp and beautiful smile that Liam first fell in love with. “Okay. Want to give me a celebratory ‘you got out of the hospital’ blowjob for being so strong?”

            “I would love to,” Liam says, standing up and grinning. “Only if we do it on the bed with you laying down, and only if you give me a handjob afterwards, though.”

            “You’re on.”

            They go to the bedroom together, Zayn riding piggyback on Liam because Liam wants to and because he knows Zayn’s not quite up to walking even if he won’t admit it.

            “This,” Zayn says as they spill on the bed together in a messy heap, “is why I love you.”

            Liam feels a warmth spread throughout his chest. “Why, because I carry you places?”

            “Yes, but also because you do all the shit everyone else does—telling me I need to be careful, checking up on me all the time—but you do it so I still feel normal. You still let me make jokes about it, and you don’t mind fucking even though I’m still a little messed up physically, and you just making talking about even the uncomfortable things feel natural and not weird and just—it’s good. You’re good. I love you. Also you’re good at giving blowjobs, so there’s that.”

            The warmth becomes a fire that’s burning along every single vein in Liam’s body. “I love you too, Z.”

            “Want to give me that blowjob now?”

            Liam laughs and pulls down Zayn’s joggers, rolling his eyes when he sees his boyfriend’s not wearing boxers underneath. He gives Zayn a few strokes with his hand, watching him harden quickly with a lazy smile. “Love the commando look on you.’

            “Thought you would, I—ah fuck, Li, give a lad a warning.”

            Liam would have smirked if he could, but having swallowed Zayn to the root a second before impedes that a little. Instead he just flattens his tongue against the base of Zayn’s cock and slides up a little to create friction, listening to Zayn hiss out a curse he’s fairly sure isn’t English with satisfaction.

            It doesn’t take long to get Zayn to the edge, but by the time he’s swallowing down Zayn’s load and pulling off with a jaw that’s slightly aching, he’s hard himself. He doesn’t even need to say anything, though; Zayn loos at the bulge in his suit pants with a smug smile and says “C’mere,” before unzipping his pants, pulling down his boxers, and wrapping a hand around Lima’s length. He’s got excellent handjob technique—there’s this wrist flick that he does that has Liam gasping into the pillows—and it takes Liam an embarrassingly short amount of time to come, spilling over Zayn’s fingers and onto his stomach messily.

            “Good?” Zayn asks, reaching for the tissues on the nightstand and handing a fistful to Liam.

            “Yes. God, yes.”

            “Good,” Zayn says, looking pleased as he wipes off his hand.

            “Sex still being therapeutic for you, you tragic veteran?”

            “I’m beginning to think it’s just you that’s therapeutic,” Zayn says seriously. “But yes.”

            Liam grins up at the ceiling. “God, I love you.”

            “Right back at you, Your Majesty.”

            Zayn falls asleep not too longer after that, but Liam stays up answering some emails. Things are going well again—he’s trying not to be too optimistic about it, but even after the scare they’ve all had, he feels confident that everything is going to be up from now on.

            Until, of course, he checks his phone and sees that Niall has texted him:

            _Hey li?_

_Yeah?_

_You know those prison tapes you got today?_

_Yeah_

            Liam sets down his phone and glances across at Zayn, who’s curled under the covers like a child, one hand outstretched limply towards Liam like he was going to tap his shoulder to tell him something right before he fell asleep. His heart aches in his chest; there has never been a person more beautiful on this earth.

            _I checked the records about them mate_

_Ok…._

_Someone found footage from one of the Circle’s bases u know thats how we got a lotta the evidence against them_

_Ok I mean like I figured that?_

            There’s a long pause where Niall types something out, deletes it, types it again, deletes it, and then types it one more time before sending:

            _Mate those are Zayn’s tapes_

            Liam shoves a fist into his mouth and tries very, very hard not to scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okAY now that that's done lemme tell you about something that's been bothering me for a while.
> 
> I'm leaving on vacation for six weeks (!!!!) a week from tomorrow. i don't know how much time i'm going to have to write, or even how much internet access i'm going to have while I'm gone. obviously, this poses a big problem to the update schedule. since i don't want to stop updating all together in that time (i'm afraid i'll get out of the swing of writing the fic, and also people might lose interest in it), but i doubt i'll be able to update every saturday, would you guys be okay with the update being a little more sporadic after next week? aka i'll update as usual next saturday, but then after that it'll be more fluid and i'll just be updating whenever i can get the chance. who knows; maybe i'll have the time to do it every week, but just in case i don't, i just wanted to tell you guys so you don't feel like i'm abandoning this fic. 
> 
> i'll probably be complaining about it a lot on [tumblr](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com), so follow me if you want to stay updated on how this mess is going to play out. now i'm going to go study for my exams, and definitely not just shower and drink tea and go to bed, no, not at all.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhhh sorry for updating at one in the morning!!! i had finals this week, which kept me busy studying, which meant that i couldn't start packing for vacation until today (or technically yesterday) even tho i'm leaving tomorrow (or technically today). So in essence i didn't have time to write this week and consequently i ended up over 5k words in six hours, which i have never done before and will probably never do again. on the bright side, i ended up doing well on all my exams (even my math exam, during which i had a panic attack) and i will get all A's for this year!!!! so at least it paid off. and this chapter is a lot of fun (?? idk if fun is the right word) esp for u folks who wanted to see more larry!

            “Just a heads up,” Niall says, popping his head into Liam’s office, “I think the Germans will be giving you a call within the next few days. Something about new import-export negotiations? It’ll be a good deal; I’d accept it if I were you.”

            “I never know how you know these things even before I do,” Liam says admiringly. “But if I asked it would take away the magic, so I’m not going to.”

            “That’s the spirit.”

            Liam grins tiredly and leans back in his chair. “Think I’m going to turn in for today. There’s nothing urgent that I should know about, yeah?”

            “Not at all. Take a fucking break, mate, you need one. Let us underlings do a bit of the hard stuff for once.”

            “Please. If anyone needs a break, it’s you. I dunno how you do half the shit you do.” He stands, stretching and beginning to gather the papers he’ll need to look over later. “You’re like a fucking wizard.”

            “Enh, it’s nothing. I’ll see you tomorrow, mate, yeah?” Niall turns and heads to the door of the office, whistling the beginnings of some song that’s been on the radio lately.

            “Niall,” Liam says abruptly, and Niall halts, half-turning to face him. “About those tapes.”

            Niall’s face says something complicated—worry, admonishment, and restraint all at once. “Yeah.”

            “Do you know—y’know, never mind.”

            Niall raises an eyebrow.

            “I don’t think I should watch them,” Liam explains. “It’d feel like an invasion of privacy.”

            “Oh, so what then? You turn them into the Council and they get assigned to someone else? It’ll be less of an invasion of privacy if Orlington watches them?”

            “I don’t think it’s fair, either,” Liam says severely. “I’ll be biased if I watch them. Because it’s someone I care about, and all.”

            “Technically,” Niall says just as severely, “as a king, you should care about all of your people, and so if you watch any of the tapes, you’ll be biased.”

            “So maybe I shouldn’t be watching any of the tapes.”

            “How can you make a fair ruling if you haven’t seen the evidence?”

            “Goddammit, Niall, you’re not making this easy.”

            Niall shrugs. “My job isn’t to make things easy. It’s to tell you what I know, and what I know is that it will be infinitely better for you to be watching those tapes than anyone else. That’s my professional and personal opinion, Your Majesty.”

            “Stop fucking pulling rank on me, Niall,” Liam mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I just want him to be okay. I don’t want to open those wounds again.”

            Niall barks out a laugh. “Mate, those wounds have been open and bleeding since he got out of there. Pretending like it didn’t happen is not going to fuckin’ help him. Having strangers witness the worst thing that ever happened to him is not going to help him. Sanitizing it is not going to help him. You need to help him, Liam.”

            “I don’t know if this is the way. It doesn’t feel right.” Liam sighs. “Thanks for your help, Niall.”

            “Any time. You should really get home and to bed. Zayner’s probably waitin’ for ya.”

            “Probably. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

            Liam watches him go, and then sighs again. The tapes have been weighing heavily on his conscience ever since he’d found out what they were. They sit like a burning coal in the back of his mind and won’t let him forget what he’ll have to watch: the person he might love more than anyone else in the whole world in the kind of pain no one should ever have to face. The person he’s deeply and helplessly in love with dying in an underground cell because of him.      

            Because it is, isn’t it? No matter how you look at it, it’s at least a little bit his fault. If he’d been able to get out of his cell sooner, he might have been able to win them those few minutes that could have made all the difference. If he’d refused to go, called Zayn’s bluff and dragged him along, they might have made it. If he’d given himself up to the Circle . . .

            _It should have been me._

            It’s a thought he doesn’t left himself think very often these days, mainly because he knows it’s not true—it shouldn’t have been anyone—but also because he knows Zayn would be furious if he somehow knew that it’s a thought that creeps up on Liam whenever he lets himself slip too far into the guilt. And he really does try not to let himself go down that path, but sometimes he can’t help it. Thinking Zayn had died, getting him back, realizing the heavy price at which he had lived—these things have scarred each and every one of them differently, and sometimes the only coping mechanism he has left is blaming himself for it all.

            “Good evening, Your Majesty. You’re home late today.”

            Liam realizes with a jolt that he’s already back at his chambers; he hadn’t been paying attention. “Good evening, Paddy. Has Sir Malik dropped by today?”

            Sometimes he thinks Paddy knows. Zayn stays the night too often for him not to have at least a little bit of suspicions as to what’s really going on. But if he does, the guard never says anything—he’s stoic and tactful about everything considering Liam’s personal life, which is part of the reason why Liam hired him.

            “He has indeed, Your Majesty. He came with some papers again about an hour ago; he’s in there waiting for you.”

            “Thank you, Paddy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

            “Indeed, Your Majesty. Be sure to get some sleep.”

            Liam slips inside the door of his chambers, trying to be quiet in case Zayn is already sleeping. But when he kicks off his shoes and looks up, Zayn is curled on the couch in front of the already roaring fireplace, deeply engrossed in a book.

            “Hey, Z,” Liam says quietly, and then, smiling as his boyfriend doesn’t look up, “Zayn. M’home.”

            Zayn looks up abruptly, the slightly dazed expression of someone who’s just been pulled out of a fantasy world on his face. “Hey. How is England doing?”

            Liam snorts, flopping onto the sofa next to him and reaching out both arms until Zayn comes and settles down with his head on Liam’s chest. “Busy as ever, innit. Busy enough for me to be home late. The next week should be better, though.”

            “That’s good. Maybe we can do something?”

            Liam smiles, feeling a deep contentment—no, affection for this miraculous man—settle into his bones. “Yeah, we can do something.” He tugs Zayn’s blanket over both of them and tucks his feet up on the sofa. “What’re you reading?”

            “The Night Circus. I’m liking it so far. You should read it.”

            “Yeah, in all my spare time.”

            “Oh, shut it.” Zayn yawns. “M’going to bed, all right? Go take and shower and come give me a cuddle.”

            “Just gave you one,” Liam grumbles, but stands up and heads to the bathroom anyway.

            The terrible things that have happened to them all have not gone away. They all still carry a piece of the pain of the past two years inside of them. But in tiny and unaware moments like these, when they can act like nothing is wrong, like they’re normal people—in moments like these, Liam can feel the hope of new beginnings inside them all.

            He just hopes it’s enough.

***

            “Okay, last thing is the question of the day, as always,” Ned says, leaning back in his chair. He hasn’t shuffled his papers once today. Zayn is very impressed. “Ready?”

            “Shoot,” Zayn says. He just wants to be out of here; Liam’s been stressed and unhappy lately, and so Zayn wants to spend the time he has before Liam gets back to his chambers today trying to plan a relaxing but unobtrusive date for the two of them. He knows that Ned wants to keep him longer than usual today because of the whole set back he’d had earlier, but Zayn honestly thinks that planning a date for his boyfriend will help him feel a hell of a lot more normal than sitting in a room with his therapist right now. And what he really wants is to feel normal.

            “Okay. Why do you think the Circle did what they did to you?”

            Zayn blinks. “Excuse me?”

            “We’ve spent a lot of time in here talking about many aspects of your trauma, but something we’ve never discussed is why it happened. That’s usually one of the things victims want to work out first, but it’s never seemed to bother you. So I wanted to ask you about it today, because often finding meaning in negativity can make it—”

            “Don’t call it _negativity_ ,” Zayn says flatly. “That makes it sound like they made me feel bad by saying they didn’t like my shoes, or something. Like a troll commented something nasty on my Facebook page. It was torture. It was torture, and it didn’t have any fucking meaning, Ned. This isn’t lit class, where everything’s a goddamn symbol. It happened because they wanted to punish me for being what they saw as a traitor to the cause. It happened because they wanted to see me fucking bleed for protecting a royal from them. It happened because they wanted to tear Li—His Majesty limb from limb for the shit his uncle did, so they did it to me instead because I was the next best thing. Because he cared about me, and I cared about him, and I was the one who stayed behind. That’s why it happened, but it still doesn’t fucking mean anything other than the fact that they ruined my life.”

            “They didn’t ruin your life, Zayn,” Ned says quietly, after a long, ringing silence. “Saying that means they still have power over you.”

            “Yeah, and so what? There’s no point in pretending that they don’t. If they didn’t, I wouldn’t be here right now. I wouldn’t be in the hospital every fucking week. I wouldn’t still be fighting so hard to even sleep at night without thinking about what they did to me.” Zayn stands up abruptly, simmering with an ill-defined fury that has less to do with what Ned said and more to do with everything else. “I’m done with this shit. I’ll see you later.”

            He strides towards the door, thankful that he’s healthy enough to do just that rather than limp away. If nothing else, he’s still got a healthy measure of pride, and he doesn’t want to spend it on making grand exits.

            “Zayn.”

            Zayn draws in a deep breath. Stops. Turns around. As much as he wants to walk away and keep on walking, he knows that he can’t. Ned really is just trying to help, and brushing him off isn’t fair to helpful. “Yeah.”

            “That wasn’t how I meant it.” Ned’s face is serious. “I know that what happened still has power over you. I know it wasn’t something as tame as negativity. I know that it’s still hard, so hard that sometimes you feel you can’t even get out of bed in the morning because the day is too huge and unconquerable. I didn’t mean to sanitize it, and I’m sorry it came off that way. You’re very brave for fighting like you are.”

            Zayn lets out his breath slowly. “Yeah, everyone keeps saying I’m brave, but I don’t really feel it. Bravery isn’t hauling your arse out of bed when you can’t stop shaking because your mind won’t let you sleep. It’s not blanking out every time something scares you because you think you’re going to end up in a bunker at the slightest threat. It’s not sitting in a therapy room trying to feel less afraid of everything.”

            But Ned only smiles. “On the contrary, Zayn,” he says, “that’s exactly what it is.”

***

            “Well, if _someone_ wasn’t such a _petulant brat_ , then maybe the rest of us wouldn’t be so fed up with them _all the time_!” Harry nearly roars.

            Louis’ face is furiously red. “Are you calling _me_ a brat? Do my ears deceive me? A born and bred noblemen, fed by a silver spoon since infanthood, is calling me a _brat_? I beg to differ, _my lord_ , I think that it’s you who’s being immature! How dare you—”

            Liam tunes out after that. Harry and Louis don’t have their spectacular fights (and equally spectacular and audible make up sex) often, but when they do, it drains everyone around them. It’s like watching two volcanoes go to war—painful to watch, but impossible to ignore. Thank God Niall isn’t around to witness it this time, at least; for all his mystery and power, Niall hates conflict, and watching any of the boys fight amongst themselves makes him quiet and withdrawn for the rest of the day.

            “I just can’t believe that all these years later you’re still bugging me about being noble—I can’t help how I was born, for god’s sake, Louis, I’m so fucking sick of you acting like you’re better than me because you act like you were raised in a sewer. It’s not fair and it’s not funny and—and I don’t appreciate you making me feel bad.”

            “Oh, so Little Lord Fauntleroy feels bad? You know what made me feel bad? The fact that your people—”       

            “Am I interrupting something?”

            Harry and Louis both freeze and turn around to see Zayn leaning against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised.

            “I—” Louis deflates. “No. Hi.”

            “Hi.” Zayn looks deeply unimpressed at the conversation he’s walked into; Liam wonders how much he’s heard. “Want to come take a walk with me, Tommo? I’ve got to grab something from my rooms.”

            “Sure.” Louis still looks dejected at Zayn’s entrance during the fight. As inconceivable as it is, Liam thinks he’s ashamed.

            Zayn nods at Liam and Harry and then practically drags Louis out by the sleeve. The door slams shut behind them, and Liam instantly rounds on Harry.

            “What in the holy fucking shit was that, Haz?”

            “Don’t even get me started,” Harry mumbles, flopping down on the couch with a groan. “I didn’t mean for it to escalate that quickly. I just sort of talked about gay nobles and how that’s viewed, you know, testing the waters for p-proposing, and—yeah. He got all self-righteous about nobles and how I want to defend their shitty ways, and everything.”

            “I feel as though that’s not a great reason to have a screaming match.”

            “You don’t need to tell me that. He’s just so goddamn _against_ everything and everyone highborn. It’s like he has to get past the fact that I’m noble in order to like me at all. And it’s not like that with you and him, not anymore.”

            “I’m not dating him,” Liam says. “I think he’s afraid of you, Harry. That’s why he’s so touchy about it all the time.”

            “ _Afraid_ of me? For what?”

            “I think he’s afraid you’re going to find someone highborn you’ll like better, and decide it’ll be easier coming out if you’re both noble, because then at least you’ll only have the marrying a man thing to worry about, and not the marrying a commoner thing as well. So he lashes out, because that’s what Louis does when he’s afraid.”

            “I hate that,” Harry says after a moment. “I can’t believe he’d think that about me.”

            “I think it’s less what he thinks about you, and more what he thinks about himself,” Liam says gently. “He’s scared he’s not good enough for you, Harry. He doesn’t want to risk losing you, so he ends up pushing you away himself.”

            Harry sighs and closes his eyes for brief moment. “When did you get so goddamn smart, Li?”

            “Being king will do that to you,” Liam says teasingly. “And as your king, I forbid you to put off any proposal plans you’ve been making because of this. Don’t say you weren’t thinking about it, because you totally were. And you can’t do that. You both need this. You were custom made for each other.”

            “I won’t delay anything,” Harry mumbles. “I know this is just some stupid fight, it’s not like we’re breaking up because of it.”

            “There’s my boy. When Zayn and Liam get back talk to him again, but with few audible italics and more reason.” 

            “You’re right.” Harry pauses, and then nods. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m not going to delay a single fucking thing. I’m going to do this.’

            “Exactly. Go get ‘em, tiger.”

            “Do you think he’ll say yes? Not now, obviously, but—”

            “Of course he will,” Liam scoffs. “Don’t you dare think that Louis wouldn’t die for you in a second—marrying you will be easy.”

            “Excuse me?” Louis’ sharp voice asks, and Liam feels his blood turn cold.

            “You lads are back quickly,” he says lightly to give Harry time to come up with an appropriately convincing lie. Then he shoots Zayn a look that asks _why didn’t you keep him away longer?_ Zayn responds with a look that answers _I didn’t actually need anything from my room I just wanted to get him away so you could talk to Harry because I figured you needed to but he caught on pretty quick stop blaming me._

            Liam thinks they might be getting a little too good at this whole couples’ telepathy thing. Either that or he’s just reading far too much into Zayn’s glance.

            “I remembered halfway there that I didn’t actually need anything,” Zayn says. “Anything good on the telly? Isn’t the new Thrones episode airing today?” His attempt at distracting Louis is pathetic, but Liam gives him kudos for trying.

            “That’s Monday at two in the fucking morning, and I know you know that because you were just complaining to me yesterday about how they should change the show times for the different time zones,” Louis says without looking away from Harry. “Are you planning on marrying me, Harold?”

            Liam feels like he’s watching a car crash in slow motion. Harry sends him a look that broadcasts a broad spectrum of various cries for help, but Liam’s already decided to sit this one out. He’s okay with dishing out advice, but getting involved now would just be meddling.

            “I—well—”

            “Are you?”

            After a long and terrible silence where the two of them just stare each other down, Harry straightens himself up, draws in a deep breath, and gets down on one knee. Liam nearly shits himself from surprise. “Louis William Tomlinson,” Harry begins, and everyone’s jaw drops in unison. “I have known you for a bit over two years now. Some may say that is not enough time to want a person in the whole and complete and beautiful way I want you, but we have been through enough together that I know you better than most of the people I’ve known my whole life. I cannot imagine my life without you in it anymore. You have become a permanent fixture in the best possible way, and I don’t want to picture the morning when I have to get up without you begging me to hit snooze just one more time. Despite our differences and disagreements, I—I am deeply and unequivocally in love with you, and so I am humbly asking you to take my hand in marriage.” He pauses and then says, “There was a whole lot more, Lou, but I forgot most of it because this was unexpected and my knees are killing me and you’re mad and this wasn’t how I planned it. Just—the original one was a whole lot more beautiful, okay? I swear I wanted it to be better than this.”

            Louis doesn’t say anything. He looks frozen, one hand halfway to his mouth in shock. His eyes are sparkling, but Liam can’t tell whether it’s from tears or residual anger.

            “Please say something, Lou,” Harry says softly. “I—I—”

            “Haz, I don’t know if this could ever work out,” Louis says suddenly. “We’re just—we’re so different. Everything that made us who we are was so different. We haven’t had the same life. I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to get past that, I just—I don’t know.”

            Liam has seen Harry react to some of the most difficult and heartbreaking things that can happen to a person, but he’s never seen him look this dejected. For a single, terrible moment he hates Louis for putting that shattered look on Harry’s face—for all of Harry’s hesitance and reluctance to pop the question, he knows that he’d thought Louis was a sure thing, that he’d believed they truly were custom made for each other. Hearing otherwise is ground shaking for him.

            “Louis William Tomlinson,” Zayn says suddenly, and everyone jolts like they’d forgotten he’s still in the room. “I did not sacrifice myself up to the Circle so I could come back and watch my brother make himself miserable just to make a point. Saying no isn’t going to make you happy, for fuck’s sake. It’s not going to make anyone happy. All it’s going to do is prove that you’re a fucking idiot who doesn’t know what’s good for him, and I swear to God I will kill you if you let the sacrifice I made to give you all a chance to be happy go to waste.”

            There’s a second where Liam is convinced that all Zayn has managed to do is destroy the last possible chance Louis would ever say yes, and then Louis’ shoulders sag, and he mutters, “I hate it when you’re right.”

            And then, because he’s dramatic and he’s utterly impossible and he’s Louis, he gets down on his knees with Harry, and takes his hands, and says, “Harry Edward Styles—Your Grace—Haz—I would be very fucking honored indeed to marry you.”

            And then, because they’re dramatic and they’re disgusting and they’re HarryandLouis, they have to burn Liam’s eyes out with a very public, very thorough display of affection. Liam averts his eyes and mouths _I love you_ to Zayn over their heads. Zayn just winks at them and then says, “If you two would like a room, there are plenty you could use that wouldn’t force your uncomfortable friends to watch you making out.”

            Harry and Louis break apart, still grinning at each other like the lovesick fools they are.

            “Also,” Zayn continues, his voice softer, “congratulations. I’m proud of you two. God knows you deserve this.”

            “Thanks, Zayn,” Harry says. “For that, and also for making this wanker see sense. Not even I can do that.”

            “That’s what brothers are for,” Zayn says. “Now go have some fantastic fiancé sex somewhere we can’t see or hear you, yeah?”

            “I’m not even going to chew you out for suggesting that, because it’s actually a fantastic idea,” Louis says with a filthy grin. “Haz, shall we?”

            They scramble to their feet, grinning like school children. Harry scoops a faintly protesting Louis over his shoulder and waltzes out the door blowing kisses to Zayn and Liam as Liam shouts “Congratulations, you lot!” after them.

            Sometimes, he swears his friends are the most impossible people in the whole goddamn world.

***

            “Do you think that could ever be us?”

            Zayn quirks an eyebrow at Liam’s turned back. “What, Harry and Louis?”

            “Yes.” Liam turns around, shrugging. “Don’t worry, I’m not proposing. I just wanted—to know what you thought. It doesn’t hurt to talk about it.”

            “You’re right.” Zayn thinks for a moment. “Dunno, really. I mean, Louis’ right in a way, isn’t he? We’re just as different as they are. And m’not saying that matters to us the way it matters to Harry and Louis, but it would matter to other people. You’re the king, Leeyum. Marrying me would be a hell of a production.”

            “It wouldn’t have to be. Not if we didn’t make it a big deal.”

            “Oh, c’mon. I’m a man, I’m bisexual, I’m a commoner, and I’m Pakistani. That’s four strikes against me right there. People would hate it.”

            “You’re also a wildly popular war hero, a respected rebel, a man of the people, and a knight. Four points in your favor right there. It wouldn’t be impossible.”

            “It wouldn’t be easy.”

            Liam’s smile is slow and reckless and challenging. It reminds Zayn of all the reasons he fell in love with this man in the first place. “Well, it’s a good thing we’re not used to things being easy.”

            Zayn smiles back, sharp and lopsided in the way he used to use as a weapon and now uses as an invitation. “I guess it is.”

            They’ve just gotten back from dinner—somehow, Zayn had managed to convince a few guards to take them out undercover and eat at a tiny Italian place he’d rented out for the evening in the outskirts of London. He knows the owners; they’d been rebel spies, and he’d gotten cleaned up there after the mission where he and his accomplices had ended up in jail for a few days. They’d been happy to shut down the restaurant for him for a few hours, even if he was vague about who he’d be bringing. The food had been great, and it’d been nice to be alone with Liam somewhere that wasn’t the palace.

            They’d had a great time, and now Liam is teaching Zayn to play chess while they take turns blaring their favorite songs. It’s not much—as far as dates go, it’s hardly the most elaborate outing ever conceived—but combined with Harry and Louis’ engagement, it’s just what they both needed to relax and just let themselves be deeply happy for once. Zayn appreciates that more than most people; a year and a half being tortured in an underground bunker will do that do you.

            “There’s the issue of children,” he says, because apparently he can never let a good thing just be. He suspects that a year and a half of being tortured in an underground bunker will do that to you also.

            Liam nearly spills the drink he’s making all over the chessboard. “What?”

            “You’re the king.” Zayn says to the board, trying to decide on his next move. Liam is so much better than him that he’s not sure whether this move even matters; he’ll lose no matter what he does. “You need children. Heirs, and all that. And while this may come as a surprise, I don’t have the equipment to pop out a few little princes to keep the bloodline going. So. There’s that.”

            Liam studies him for a moment, and then says. “I’m not proposing, Zayn. I’m not thinking of proposing right now. I’m just saying, hypothetically, you know, what if we were to get engaged—”

            “No, no, I know. I know that was a far jump into the future, but you know we’d have to think about it if we were getting engaged.” Zayn can feel himself being a killjoy, but it’s hard to stop once he gets going like this.

            Liam leans back in his seat and studies the ceiling for a long enough time that Zayn begins to sense that he is vaguely upset. “I just,” he says carefully after the silence is long enough to get a bit uncomfortable, “I just don’t want to spend my life with anyone else but you, Zayn.”

            “Me neither,” Zayn says softly. “If you _were_ really proposing right now, I’d say yes.” He pauses, watching Liam watch the ceiling. “We’ll work something out, yeah?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Maybe—if we did get married—maybe we could do surrogacy? To take care of the kid issue? If you were the donor and we had a noblewomen carry the baby, maybe people wouldn’t have a problem with it.”

            Liam straightens, looking heartened. “That might work. We could ask Niall for ideas on how to spin our engagement so it looks not only like a personal decision, but also like something that’s going to be good for the country—make it political. We could say that it’s helping incorporate the opinions of the common people into the government. People might actually like having a commoner be so high up. New England, new me, and all that.”

            “We’ll work something out,” Zayn repeats, feeling heartened himself. “That’s a good idea, about asking Niall—he’s a fucking mad genius.”

            “You’ve got that right.”

            This, perhaps, is why Zayn has fallen so deeply and utterly in love with Liam, after all. He makes everything a little less impossible, a little more dream-worthy. He can take an idea and turn it into reality, take straw and spin it into gold. And he knows that Liam hasn’t proposing and might never propose and that this whole conversation is completely hypothetical, but—he meant what he said.

            Someday, Liam might ask properly, and if that happens, he will be waiting to say yes.

***     

            It keeps Liam awake at night.

            Well, many things keep Liam awake at night, from the new tax bill being discussed in the Council to Simon’s swiftly approaching trial to Zayn saying he’d marry Liam if Liam asked. But most specifically, Zayn’s tapes keep Liam awake at night, because he knows that he will probably have to watch them. Niall is right (as Niall always is): refusing to watch the tapes would mean he favors some subjects over others, and while in practice everyone knows that he must because he’s only human, it doesn’t look good to admit that in formal theory. And he would hate knowing that someone like Duke Orlington could get the tapes after he hands them in, that some stuffy white nobleman could watch Zayn bleed out and not feel a fucking thing.

            But he still can’t sleep, because even when he makes up his mind about this whole thing, he still has to prepare himself to actually see the tapes. Because maybe most of the Council members wouldn’t care about Zayn while watching them, but Liam knows he is going to feel every single wound he watches Zayn receive. He will lose every drop of blood along with the man he loves, and there is no point in trying to pretend otherwise.

            This is not about that, though. This is about being able to serve justice, about keeping England safe, about trying to understand this great and terrible thing Zayn cannot properly vocalize. This is about Zayn more than anything, and Liam will not let himself forget that.

            Someday, when the revolution truly is in the past and doesn’t feel so raw and recent, he will get a full night’s sleep. They all will. Even Zayn, who is peacefully slumbering beside him now but who he knows will probably wake up from nightmares in a few hours. Even Liam, who hasn’t been able to sleep for two years now—being kidnapped wasn’t the best for catching up on his shuteye, and after that . . . well, after that, he was too haunted by Zayn’s ghost to ever enjoy sleep.

            And now, he is haunted in a different way. That guilt he’s carried with him for so long is still there, but now it’s accompanied by worry and fear and the seemingly unending ocean of affection he has for his impossible boyfriend. He tries to focus on the last sentiment, letting _I’d say yes_ echo through his head like a half-forgotten strain of music. Zayn’s not wrong, it would be hard, but he has faith they can make it. If they have gotten through everything else they’ve had thrown at them, getting married should be the least of their problems. They didn’t, as Zayn said to Louis, get through everything else just to stop themselves from being happy.

            He falls asleep thinking of holding Zayn’s hand in front of the entire country, and the exhilaration they will both feel when, without sneaking off to a corner like it’s a dirty secret, they can finally kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaand that's it!!! 
> 
> a few things before i go: 
> 
> 1) i realize i have two weeks of comments to reply to, which i am planning on doing tomorrow!! pls don't feel like i don't appreciate your comments; i have seen and read every single one, but i've just been so busy that i haven't had the time to sit down and reply   
> 2) this is the last update before i leave on vacation, meaning that i will probably not be updating regularly every saturday until i get back (or until the fic is done, whichever comes first). i'll be talking more about how often i'll be able to update on my [tumblr](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com)  
> 3) this is so fucking random but i went and saw Finding Dory today and it was really good so go see it if you can because it's 10/10 honestly
> 
> okay that's all i think!! if there was something actually important i wanted to talk about but i forget to mention it and instead talked about Finding Dory i'm going to be fucking angry at myself lmao. but anyway. i will bring these long ass rambling notes to an end and just say i will see you soon!! possibly not next saturday but hopefully soon!!


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again friends!! I'm sorry for not uploading last week; i hope you didn't mind the wait too much?? I've been having a crazy vacation and traveling around a lot, so i don't have wifi or my laptop with me more than i'd like. But i am having a very good time, and i've tried a lot of new things since i left home!! I hope you guys are all having cool, adventurous summers as well?? 
> 
> I'm fairly pleased with how this chapter turned out; it's something i've been planning out for quite a while now. Also, i wrote this chapter out of order??? i literally never write out of order, i always just write the chapters and scene in chronological order, but this one was a bit different, so hopefully it still flows well despite that. 
> 
> Another thing: this chapter is a bit more graphic than some of the others have been with descriptions of violence. you guys have a pretty good idea of what level of blood and gore i'm usually willing to include, and this doesn't step outside of that general sort of boundary, but if you think you're going to be triggered and don't want to read, leave a comment or message me on tumblr and i'll summarize what happens for you so you don't miss anything! I personally don't think it's that bad, but ofc it's better to be safe than sorry, so consider this your warning.

The sex they have is always marvelous, breathless, all-encompassing. They’re obsessed with each other; Liam relishes the sounds he can pulls out of Zayn—tiny gasps and bitten-off groans—and Zayn can never stop himself from touching Liam; his hands know every inch of Liam’s body as intimately as his own. Liam swears that heaven is just an eternity of the first moment of sinking into Zayn’s entrance—that first moment where they’re as close to each other as anyone can manage, where they’re both speechless, adjusting to each other, shaking with the effort of holding back their pleasure. It’s a moment that’s as sacrilegious as it is fervent; Liam would like nothing better. They’re still both full of the desperation of their first time together, but they do manage to make it to the bedroom most of the time these days.

            Tonight is no different; Liam opened Zayn up with three fingers after receiving a mind-numbing blowjob for his trouble, and now is fucking into him as slowly as he can manage. Zayn is pliant and panting beneath him, thighs trembling and head thrown back. He’s warm and tight around Liam, squeezing even tighter when Liam takes his cock in one hand and gives him a few strokes.

            “F-fuck, Liam, be careful or I’ll—”

            Liam withdraws his hand and concentrates his attention on his thrusts instead. He’s close too, but they haven’t had the time and energy to do it properly for a bit, and he wants to make it last. Zayn whimpers as Liam grinds against his prostate, his hips bucking up to meet Liam’s desperately and his cock pulsing out a pearl of precome.

            “So fucking close, Li—” Zayn jerks his hips up again to meet Liam halfway and groans deliciously. His chest is heaving and his cheeks and neck are flushed; Liam’s fairly sure this is what art looks like, what flying feels like.

            “Come when you’re ready, babe,” Liam pants out, getting in two more deep, slow thrusts before he and Zayn come at almost exactly the same time. He pulls out and they collapse against each other in a messy pile of sweaty limbs and sheets.

            Long after they’ve cleaned up and Zayn has fallen asleep, Liam is still awake, staring up at the ceiling like it could offer him advice. It’s the most ridiculous and terrible thing to be thinking at midnight while he’s lying in a warm bed next to his gorgeous boyfriend who just finished having sex with him, but—the tapes. His mind won’t let the matter rest. They’re eating away at his mind like worms through soft wood, and consequently his stomach is broiling with the worst anxiety he’s felt in a long time. He now understands what Zayn means when he says he sometimes wakes up feeling like the world is ending; the world _is_ ending, and Liam has the button that will start the apocalypse in the hard drive hidden in his closet.

            He rolls out of bed. He stands up.

            The hard drive is a tiny thing, but it’s cold in his hand as he takes it out of the pocket where he’d stored it and pads to the bathroom, snagging his laptop from the table as he goes. It doesn’t feel like something that will enable Liam to bear witness to a year and a half of hell, and yet—

            His hands shake as he locks the bathroom and sits down on the floor with his back to the door. He turns on his computer. He plugs in the hard drive. He is not prepared for this, he knows that, but he can’t let it hang over him any longer.

            There’s only one video in the hard drive’s folder. He clicks it.

            If Liam had been expecting to be met with terrors straight away, he is disappointed: the first shot shows a small cell that’s lit by painfully bright fluorescent lights. The floor is concrete, punctuated with iron loops, and in the center of it, there’s a slumped figure bound to a metal chair. The quality of the video is grainy—it’s a security tape, after all—but the person it’s undoubtedly Zayn—Zayn as Liam has not seen him in years, with his hair not yet shorn off and his body not yet emaciated. There’s the date in the bottom corner of the screen; it’s a day after Liam left him for dead in the rebel base. No horrors have yet been inflicted upon him.

            After a few seconds, Zayn stirs and straightens, limbs automatically tugging at the ropes in an attempt to stretch before he even realizes his situation. Then it sinks in: his struggles become frantic for a moment before he seems to conclude his bonds will not break so easily and subsides, tilting his head back and squeezing his eyes shut in resignation.

            “Fuck,” he says, despair audible in his voice even through the shitty sound quality. Then, more emphatically: “ _Fuck_.

            Liam abruptly remembers—how had he forgotten?—that Zayn hadn’t been planning to live. That he’d wanted to go down fighting, that he was supposed to shoot himself if the Circle didn’t shoot him first, that being taken alive was the last thing Zayn had ever wanted. Somehow, caught up in the miracle of Zayn being alive, Liam has never bothered to ask him how and why the plan didn’t work.

            Zayn futilely tugs at the ropes one more time, and then looks down at himself; Liam follows his gaze and sees blood on his shirt, surely a remnant of the battle between him and the Circle. Muttering something under his breath, Zayn tilts his head back again. It’s hard to read his expression, but Liam is willing to bet that he’s trying to gather himself for what he knows is coming. He can’t even imagine the thought process that must be happening behind Zayn’s eyes—the other man must have known what was in store for him, or he wouldn’t have been so firm in his conviction not to get caught. _How do you prepare for torture like that_ , Liam wonders. What had Zayn told himself in that brightly lit cell while waiting for the agony of the oncoming months?

            The video cuts ahead to later the same day. Now, there are two men in the cell with Zayn, who is still tied to the chair. He has that steely-calm look on his face—Liam knows it’s a mask for terror, but few other people do, and he knows the men must be surprised at Zayn’s seeming lack of fright. Liam’s pulse jumps. This, he assumes, is how Zayn’s nightmare began: tied to a chair with his head still held high in defiance of what was to come.     

            “I’m assuming you boys are here to beat the shit out of me and then maybe put a bullet through my head, if I’m lucky,” Zayn says conversationally. “Can we get on with it? The suspense is killing me.”

            Liam wants to shout at him to stop being such a smart-arse, but he knows that even if Zayn could have somehow heard him all those months ago, it’d be no use. Zayn has too much of Louis in him to shut up at this point.

            “This whole thing depends on you, really,” one of the men says. “We can do this the easy way—”

            “—or the hard way, yeah, yeah,” Zayn says. “What are my options?”

            “Either you tell us everything you know about the rebels and the escaped prince, or you don’t. If you do, we’ll put that bullet through your head nice and quick and easy. No fuss, no pain—it’s not a bad way to go. If you don’t—well, let’s just say you will. Once we’re done with you, anyway.”

            Zayn is silent a moment, considering. Liam’s heart pounds in his chest, a swift and uneven drumbeat.

            “What if I tell you I don’t know anything?” he says finally.

            “You know something,” the man says with simple conviction. “Own up and make this easy. You don’t have to suffer. Fuck your cause—no one will know the bloody difference. No one will remember you for being a martyr. No one will even fucking hear you scream. Do yourself a favor and make it quick.”

            Another moment of silence, and then: “Can we skip to the beating the shit out of me part, please?” Zayn asks. “I’d actually much rather do that than listen to you t—”

            The first two blows take both Liam and Zayn by surprise: one of the stomach, one square on his mouth, done with alternating fists in quick succession. The noise of impact is sickeningly loud, but not even that is enough to mask the guttural noise of pain Zayn makes; the punch to his stomach not only drove all the air out of him, but also hit the place where blood is staining his shirt, concealing what is doubtlessly a bullet wound.

            The man steps back a bit as Zayn chokes and gasps for air, his head down and his mouth dripping blood onto his lap. For a single, terrible moment, Liam thinks he’s going to hit Zayn again before he even has time to recover, but he just watches him dispassionately, like a scientist observing an experiment. Liam realizes, as Zayn must have realized in that moment, that this man will have no mercy if Zayn chooses not to give up what little information he has, that this will merely be a preamble to a long declaration of suffering if he does not give in now. For a futile moment, Liam hopes that Zayn will keep his head down and submit, that he’ll tell them what he knows and try to spare himself a little pain. But the truth is, even if Liam didn’t know how this story ends, he knows there is too much fight in the man he loves to go down without one. Zayn is not one to take the easy way out, and so it is no surprise when he raises his head, tilts his chin up defiantly in a way he undoubtedly learned from Louis, smiles a terrible, crooked, bloody smile, and says, “Is that really the best you can do?”

            And so it begins.

***

            Two hours later, Liam is sickened, reeling, deafened by the sound of Zayn’s screams, and blinded by the sight of his blood. There are, he learns, countless ways to hurt a person, from brutally medieval methods to those that are horribly inventive in their modernity. They chain Zayn to the concrete floor—which is just adding insult to injury, because Zayn is in no shape to escape after the first two days—and slowly inflict every one of those ways on him while Liam watches, screaming silently along with Zayn into his fists. At first, Zayn does everything in his power not to scream: he wants to hold on to a last shred of dignity, Liam supposes, but soon that becomes impossible even when Zayn bites down on his own forearm until blood bubbles between his teeth in an effort to stay silent. Then the sounds they draw out of him are not like anything you hear in the movies, not that shrill, drawn out shriek of agony. The noises he makes are hoarse, guttural, animalistic, the sound of a helpless creature of prey being torn limb from limb.

            After a while, it is not about the information anymore; either they realize he doesn’t know much, or they realize that he’s not willing to give away what he does not, and yet it continues. It’s not until a clip labeled with the date of Liam’s coronation where they bring Zayn within an inch of death with their savagery that Liam understands. Zayn is an easy victim, a stand-in, a substitute for the people who were winning all the battles so efficiently and tearing the Circle apart. At least in part, they do it to him just because he’s there—he takes the brunt of the Circle’s fury when it’s at its hottest and so yet again they are all left in Zayn’s debt, and yet again Zayn asks very little for the price of his blood. But the worst part must be the fact that Liam nows that Zayn suffered not only for that reason, but also because the Circle knew he cared about Liam, and Liam cared about him. Zayn was being punished for daring to have any sort of relationship with the Circle’s greatest pariah, and it makes Liam sick to know that.

            _It should have been me._

_I wonder if he would have been better off if we’d never met._

            Just as terrible as seeing the physical horrors is witnessing Zayn being stripped of himself—the pain reduces him to the barest bones of a human, a raw and bleeding nerve where he was once whole. He loses his pride, his dignity, his sense of self. He loses so much of what makes him Zayn that eventually it becomes hard to remember that the present Zayn is safe and asleep in the next room. Liam understands some parts of Zayn so much better now—why it’d been so important for him to see himself in the hospital, why he can’t wake up without panicking most days, why he sometimes flinches when the lights flicker or when Liam opens the curtains in the morning. It’s a terrible and twisted insight into Zayn’s PTSD, which for all his sympathy Liam has never quite been able to comprehend. In one clip, right after his tormenters leave the room, Zayn slams his fist against the floor until it bleeds and screams _this is not how I die_ ; in another, it’s hard to understand his hoarse, quiet voice, but Liam’s fairly sure he’s begging them to kill him through the tears.

            But Zayn, miraculously—more miraculously than Liam had ever known—clings to life and sanity with broken and bloody fingernails. Alone in the cell in the stretches of time when they leave him alone, he talks to himself in English and Urdu, reciting song lyrics, counting to impossibly high numbers, remembering life outside the base. He gives himself something concrete to hold on to, and it’s obvious that without actively trying to keep himself going, he wouldn’t have made it. But strangely enough, it’s the fact that Zayn keeps talking back even at his worst that seems to help him the most. Liam suspects it helps him feel like himself again, at least a little, or maybe gives him the faint illusion of having some sort of weapon against this unconquerable enemy. At one point, an upper Circle member who is going to be tried in the trial this evidence is for comes into the cell, looks at Zayn curled on the floor, and asks the guard, “What the hell are you doing to _him_?”

            And Zayn, half-delirious from the pain he’s in, says perfectly clearly, “They gave me your mum to fuck. What, you want it next?”

            It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so damn pathetic.

            It’s not until there’s a clip of the Circle guards holding Zayn’s head under in a bucket of water that Liam shuts the computer off and is finally, truly sick. It’s worse than any of the bloodier things they’ve done to him because all Liam can see is the moment he’d found Zayn unconscious under the shower spray—it’s been weeks since it happened, but that residual fear is still there, now made even worse by the knowledge that Zayn had relived part of his torture even when in the safety of the palace. And so Liam heaves and then dry-heaves into the toilet bowl as quietly as he can, tears streaming down his face as he shakes.

            It was a mistake to watch this. He hadn’t been ready. He will never be ready.

            He straightens up and washes out his mouth, still crying without really being aware of it. There’s no question of finishing the video now or ever; he’s seen everything he needs to, enough to give him a thousand nightmares every night for the rest of his life.

            No wonder Zayn complains about not being able to sleep.

            _Zayn_.

            Liam is immediately seized with a complete and full-bodied fear that if he goes into the next room and looks in the bed, Zayn will be tied down and bleeding, that by watching the video, he would have somehow turned back time and brought Zayn back to the cell. He stumbles in his haste to go look, leaving the laptop in the bathroom.

            It’s quiet and dark in the bedroom; there’s a cocoon of blankets on Zayn’s side of the bed that makes Liam feel a little better, but he still climbs into bed to make sure, his limps still shaking. Sure enough, Zayn is peacefully slumbering, his face soft in sleep and one arm stretched out across the mattress. For the first time, Liam notices the scars on his forearm: marks from his own teeth where he’d bitten down trying not to scream. For a moment, he thinks he’s going to be sick again, but then he focuses on the fact that there’s no blood, no ropes; he marvels at the miracle of Zayn’s whole and unhurt body, reaches out an arm to encircle it protectively. Zayn stirs drowsily.      

            “Still awake?” he mumbles, not opening his eyes. “Something t’matter, Li?”

            Liam doesn’t trust his voice and so doesn’t reply, hoping that Zayn will just go back to sleep.

            “Li?”

            “Everything’s fine, babe,” he says, and instantly winces as his voice wobbles and then breaks. He sounds like he’s been crying, which he’s fairly sure he still might be.

            “Liam.” Zayn is awake almost at once. “Have you been crying?”

            “No. Go back to sleep, Z.”

            Zayn shakes off Liam’s arm and struggles to sit up; Liam miserably wonders if it’s because the damage inflicted upon him still hurts, or whether it’s just because he has so many damn blankets wrapped around him. “You have been crying. What’s the matter?”

            “S’nothing, I—” But once again his voice betrays him.

            “Talk to me,” Zayn commands. “Was it a dream?”

            Liam is silent a long moment, trying to regain control. He’s still shaking, and he’s fairly sure Zayn can feel it. “How did you live?” he blurts out finally. “After everything they did—Zayn—how the hell did you live?”

            Zayn frowns. “What, did you have a dream about it or something?”

            “Yes,” Liam says. Then, because Zayn deserves the truth: “No. You know that trial for the Circle we’re having in two weeks?”

            “Yeah.”

            “I was watching evidence that’s being reviewed by the prosecution, and—there’s security footage from what—what they did to you. I watched some of it, I—” He breaks off helplessly.

            Zayn is quiet for a very, very long time. Then he says quietly, “I didn’t know there was a record of it.”

            “I didn’t either, I didn’t know, I—I’m sorry, Zayn.” Liam can’t remember feeling this wretched and guilty in a terrible long while. “Are you upset? I’m so fucking sorry.”

            “I’m not upset,” Zayn says. His voice is distant. “I just—I didn’t want anyone to ever see me like that. Like I was. That wasn’t—that’s not how I want you to see me.”

            “I know.” Liam says miserably, “I know, I know, I know. I’m so fucking sorry.” When Zayn doesn’t continue, he adds, “Do you—is there anything I can—should we talk about it?”

            “No.” Zayn lays back down, drawing the blankets around himself again. “We shouldn’t. I just—no.”

            There’s a long silence again. Liam is still shaking; he wishes he had some of the blankets from Zayn’s cocoon, but he’d feel like a dick asking for them after this. Maybe he shouldn’t even be here. Maybe he should be sleeping on the sofa.

            “No,” Zayn says suddenly, sitting up again at the speed of light and nearly making Liam shit himself in surprise. “No, you know what, we should talk about it. I’m not letting them keep me quiet anymore. Let’s talk. Come here.”

            He looks as tired and miserable and frightened as Liam is, but there’s steely determination under that. Liam is flooded with warm pride at the strength of his boy, at the courage it must have taken for Zayn to get those words out. After seeing what he has, he knows it must be tempting to keep everything bottled up inside—those memories are not ones you’d want to share with people you love. They’re too ugly, too disturbing.      

            Zayn opens up his blanket cocoon and Liam scoots over next to him, tucking an arm around his shoulders. They’re pressed together all down their sides, as close as they can be like this, both enveloped in the warmth of the sheets. Liam can’t stop feeling that relief that Zayn is safe, that he’s whole and unhurt.

            “You’re shaking,” Zayn says quietly. “All right?”

            “No,” Liam says. This is not a time for white lies.

            There’s a pause.

            “Me neither.”

            Liam gently kisses Zayn’s temple, right above where he still has the faint trace of a scar.

            “Are we talking, then?”

            “Yeah,” Zayn says. “I s’ppse we are. You first.”

            Liam’s not sure what function he’s supposed to fulfill first, so he just says, “What did you mean when you said you didn’t want to see you like you were?”

            Zayn laughs. There’s very little humor in it. “I mean, how can you see a person normally again after seeing them basically in pieces? I wasn’t even me. I didn’t even remember who I was half the time. Not what I looked like, not even my own damn name. I didn’t want you to see me when I was this—I don’t know, an animal. It’s bad enough it’s in my head; I don’t want it in yours, too.”

            “I still see you normally,” Liam says quietly. “You’re still a person. You’re still Zayn. I still love you.”

            Zayn catches Liam’s hand where it rests on his shoulder, presses it to his lips. “I love you, too.” He pauses, frowning. “How much did you see? It was a bloody year and a half; I don’t reckon you’ve got the time to watch it all. Was it just the greatest hits or something?”

            “It was cut into chronological clips; someone must have gone through it and found the most relevant stuff to the case.”

            “Wow, I wonder which lucky bastard got that job.”

            Liam snorts. “Me too.” He’s quiet a moment. “How _did_ you live through it, Z? Sometimes like that—something so harsh and relentless and drawn out—I don’t think most people would make it.”

            Zayn shakes his head. “I don’t know myself, half the time. I don’t even think I should really be here, by rights—I should be dead or insane or something. I think it was hope, honestly. I knew someone, eventually, would come. It seemed like the Circle was losing, and so it made sense that someone would raid the base eventually, but—mainly it was just this unshakable instinct that you boys wouldn’t leave me there. Even if you thought you were looking for a dead body, you would keep looking till you found me.”

            “We should have been looking harder,” Liam says, feeling the old, familiar guilt rise up in him like a second wave of vomit. “I’m so sorry we didn’t come for you sooner.”

            Zayn is quiet for a bit, seemingly trying to choose the right words, and then finally says, “I’m not going to say that it’s all right, because—you know—I wasn’t all right there. It would have been fantastic to have been found sooner. But I know it’s not your fault that you didn’t come sooner than you did. You didn’t think I was alive, for god’s sake. I told you to run and not look back, to leave me for dead. I don’t blame you, Liam. None of you.”

            “I feel like fucking shit about it. Every day. It—” Liam swallows, pushes the words into the air: “It should have been me.”

            Zayn stiffens under Liam’s arm. “Don’t ever say that, Liam.”

            “No, listen, I was the one they wanted, they would have just killed me and been done with it, you shouldn’t have had to go through it—you left behind so many people that cared about you, and you had so much ahead of you, and you shouldn’t have ever—”

            “Shut up,” Zayn says forcefully. “I don’t want to hear that from you ever again, Liam. You wouldn’t have deserved death or capture or torture any more than me. No one deserves what happened to me, not even the fuckers that did it to me. No, shut up, listen—I wouldn’t change what I did. If you took me back to that bloody hallway where I told you to run and leave me, I wouldn’t do anything differently. Because it got you out alive and safe, and because it got England out of a war that could have gotten a whole lot uglier, and because I know that I pulled through it. Even though those bastards ripped me apart inside and outside, I made it, and now I have you and the boys back, and that’s all that matters. I still don’t regret what I did, even after what happened, and I certainly wouldn’t want anyone else in my place. Certainly not you, Liam. You’ve done so much for everyone—think what might have happened if they would have killed you. Simon might still be on the throne. Azoff might have gotten the throne, and God knows what he would have done. It wasn’t you, and it shouldn’t have been.”

            “I know,” Liam says. “I know, it just—it’s in my head, and I can’t help feeling like I should have been the one . . .”

            Zayn lets out a long breath. “I get it. Sometimes you can’t help but feel something even if you know it’s not true.” He’s silent for a moment. “For instance, because you told me that—because you trusted me with that—I’ll ask you something that’s in my head even though it shouldn’t be. You’re going to be angry.”

            “It takes a lot to make me angry at you.”

            “We’ll see.” He gazes up at the ceiling, leaning into Liam’s side. “Would you ever give me back to the Circle?”

            Liam chokes, feels a wave of nausea rise up in him. “Zayn, I—’

            “No, no, no, see, I know you wouldn’t. Not in a million years. None of you boys would. But—you know—it’s in there, and sometimes in my dreams I’m back in there because you gave me back to them, and—yeah.”

            “I would _never_ ,” Liam says, hushed, appalled. There is no word in any human language to tell Zayn how much he means that. He would tear every one of them limb from limb, would burn the world down, would betray everyone and everything he knows before he let the Circle touch Zayn again. “I know I left you back then, but—I’d never do that again, Zayn, I can’t stop regretting that, I can’t fucking sleep because of that, I swear I’ll never let them—”

            “It’s not because you left me,” Zayn says. He curls his fingers around Liam’s, steadies their shaking. “I don’t blame you for that, I’ve told you that. I’m just afraid, okay? I’m afraid that the people I love most will lead me back to the thing I fear the most. It’s got nothing to do with anything you’ve actually done. Like you said, it’s in my head—that doesn’t mean it has any basis in reality.”

            Liam nods, still horrified that the thought has even crossed Zayn’s mind. He’s sickened that in Zayn’s dreams, he is a figure to be feared and hated.

            “We’re a pretty fucked up pair, aren’t we?”

            Zayn breathes out a laugh, tilts his head back. “We are. Still alive, though.”

            “Y’know, I’ve never asked—why didn’t your plan work? You were going to shoot yourself if it looked like they were going to take you alive.”

            “Yeah, didn’t really turn out that way, did it? I got caught up in the fight and before I knew it, I was on the floor with a bullet in me stomach that was bleeding like hell and no ammo. Couldn’t even move cause I was in so much pain—or, like, I thought so at the time; it was nothing compared to what was coming, innit—and after that the next thing I remember is waking up in the cell. They probably tranquilized me or something.”

            Liam nods, drawing Zayn a little closer, if at all possible. His boyfriend is shaking a little under his arm but his hands are still against Liam’s. “I know you’ve heard this ten billion times, but you’re incredibly brave. Brave’s not even the word—there’s not a word for what you are. Miraculous. Unbelievable.”

            “Fucked up,” Zayn says, “Traumatized. Tired.”

            “Those don’t cancel out what I said.”

            Zayn laughs again. “I love you.”

            “I love you so fucking much, too.”    

            “You gonna have nightmares because of those videos?”

            “Probably. Yes.”

            “Good. We can match.”

            “It was terrible, you know.”

            “Trust me, I know.”

            “No, I mean—imagine watching that happen to me.”

            Zayn sobers. “It would make me sick—I—can’t imagine.”

            “Exactly. I watched you nearly die again and again, I watched you suffer in every way possible, I watched you be hurt without being able to do anything. I’ve—I’ve never felt so helpless, Zayn. When I was done I was sick. I had to come and check on you, because all I could see was what you looked like when you were fucking dying; I couldn’t believe that you were safe and here.”

            “I’m here,” Zayn says softly. He squeezes Liam’s hand, hard. “I’m here, okay? M’not going anywhere.”

            “I know.” Liam draws in a deep breath. “I know.”

            “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

            “What the—it’s not your fault. I chose to watch it.”

            “I just—I wish—I wish it wasn’t so portable, y’know? I carry it around with me everywhere. Sometimes it’s like they’re still hurting me, like I never got away. Sometimes I wake up, and I can’t even remember where I am. I can’t breathe, I can’t move. And then I see you next to me, and I run to the bathroom and lock myself in because I don’t recognize you. Because I’m afraid you’re going to hurt me. And then I calm down and remember, and I’m frustrated and even—even ashamed, I dunno, ashamed that I still have to strip down in front of the mirror and check myself all over to make sure I’m not bleeding. Like I should be better by now. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that now you have a piece of that inside of you. And I never wanted that to happen.” He laughs tiredly. “I thought I was a self-contained bomb. But now you got caught in the shrapnel.”

            “Zayn,” Liam says gently. “You were never in this alone. Not before tonight, not now. We all were caught in the shrapnel—we have been since you told me to leave you and run. We’ve all been hurt by this. You’re not alone, okay? You don’t have to feel like you have to prevent the rest of us from getting hurt.”

            “I know.” Zayn sounds miserable. “But this—it’s different. You’ve literally seen what I went through. S’not a burden you should have to share.”

            “It’s not a burden you have had to carry in the first place,” Liam says. “But if I can lighten it—if this ends up helping you—then I don’t care what the price is. You know I’d do anything to help you, Zayn.”

            Zayn doesn’t reply, just kisses the side of Liam’s neck, right over his birthmark. They sit in silence side by side for a while, feeling their heartbeats line up where their wrists are pressed together as they hold hands.

            “Bed?”

            “Bed,” Liam agrees. “Let me hold you? I just—need to be sure.”

            “If you wake up and I’m not there, I’m probably walking off a dream. Don’t panic. Try the bathroom door first, yeah?”

            “Deal.”

            Later in the night, when Zayn wakes up with a mouthful of pillow from where he’d bitten it trying not to scream, Liam kisses the tears off his face, soothes him until he’s back in the present again. He knows all the right words to say now, knows exactly what he’s counteracting. Zayn curls into his chest and murmurs a thank you right above his heart before falling back asleep.

            Liam doesn’t let him go the entire night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there we go, there's that resolved. I hope i tackled it in a manner that's satisfactory to everyone?? I tried very hard to keep this chapter balanced and realistic and not go overboard with everything; hopefully i succeeded. 
> 
> I don't know when the next upload will be, so just keep an eye out for updates at any time, really. I'm hoping it won't be another full two weeks before i can upload, but i'm travelling again for the next week and a half or so and i'm not sure i'll have wifi, etc, so it very well may be the same interval before the next chapter. hopefully you guys are okay with that!! i personally miss not being able to write a chapter every week. It felt weird to get back into the swing of things. 
> 
> also, can you believe this is over 100k now??? thats....crazy long. This is by far the longest thing i have ever written, and i'm not sure if i should be impressed or appalled at myself for putting this much blood, sweat, and tears into a fic. I think it's a bit of both lmao
> 
> anyway, i've bored you all enough with my rambling, so i will see you again next update!! stay safe until then.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in what will come as a surprise to many and despite the fact that this fic hasn't updated in the longest hiatus i've ever taken from an ongoing fic, no, i am not dead. if you follow me on tumblr, you may have heard about The Wifi-less Trip to Scotland (#whathappenedinscotland amirite ladies), The Week of Really Bad, No Good Anxiety, and The Mighty Quest to Find a Travel Adaptor That Works With My Laptop Charger already. If you do not, then let it suffice to say that i have experienced a variety of unfortunate and mostly unpreventable events that got in the way of me writing and updating this chapter until now. But in any case, i do deeply apologize for the long wait, and hope that everyone is still interested in finding out what happens. if it's any consolation, the remaining three (only three already???? jesus christ) updates will come much faster than this one did. 
> 
> I've talked enough already bc i'm sure yall want to get on with the reading, so with one last apology for the long delay and a deep thank you to anyone who's still reading and interested, here is the chapter. enjoy!!

Liam wakes up not able to breathe. His lungs are shriveled, deflated bags in his decaying chest, but his heart is racing like it can singlehandedly make up for his lack of oxygen. It’s a good two minutes before he can catch his breath, and even then he has to wait for a few more waves of panic to wash over him before he can open his eyes.

            Zayn isn’t on his side of the mattress.

            Liam’s lungs abruptly stop working again.

            When he calms down enough to move, he reaches out to touch the empty sheets and finds a faintly warm, Zayn-shaped dent in the mattress, which is calming—wherever Zayn is, he can’t be too far from here. When he calms down enough to think, he remembers that these days Zayn is rarely in physical danger, and is probably just fine. It’s totally normal to wake up and get out of bed without wanting to wake up your boyfriend. It doesn’t mean you’re lying dead or worse in a ditch somewhere.

            Liam wonders when exactly he’d started having panic attacks like this. Probably around the same time he’d realized that there are much, much worse things than being dead.

            He swings his feet out of bed and heads to the bathroom, where he knows Zayn probably is. His heart is still racing, still trying to compensate for his lungs’ moment of weakness, and he knows the only thing that will slow it is physical, real confirmation that Zayn is alive and in one piece.

            Sure enough, when he pushes the door open without bothering to knock, Zayn is in the bathroom brushing his teeth in two days of stubble and no shirt; his body is scarred and skinny but reassuringly unbloodied. Their eyes meet in the mirror briefly, Zayn swiftly taking in Liam’s expression before his hand shoots out to encircle Liam’s wrist, squeezing hard until Liam doesn’t know whose pulse is whose anymore. They stand like that until Zayn leans over to spit toothpaste foam into the sink and then turns to face Liam.

            “I’m here,” he says. “I’m fine.”

            “I know.” It strikes Liam that those words are for Zayn’s benefit as much as his; the same goes for the lack of a shirt. Zayn needs to check that he’s unhurt just as much Liam does.

            “Bad dream?”

            “Woke up feeling panicky,” Liam says, which is nothing short of a gross understatement, but Zayn knows that. “You?”

            Zayn shrugs expressively. “You know. One of those mornings.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah. Lost some time earlier.”

            Liam raises an eyebrow.

            “I was standing over by the window earlier,” Zayn explains. “No idea in hell how or why I got there. I’m guessing I had a bad dream, woke up in a panic, and my mind just—” He snaps his fingers “—blanked out. Which—you know. Always nice to know my head still has a self-destruct button. Anyway, I just got back in bed. No point in losing sleep if I’m losing my memory too. Gotta keep what I can, right?”

            “Don’t be so dramatic,” Liam says, a note of warmth in his voice, and Zayn huffs out a laugh. “It’ll stop happening eventually. All the doctors say so.”

            “I, for one, can’t wait for it to be eventually.” Zayn squeezes Liam’s wrist one more time and then lets go to turn around and pick up his razor and shaving cream. “Your panicky feeling have anything to do with today?”

            “What’s—ah. No. I only just remembered.”

            “And they say it’s not possible to forget unpleasant things. You are full of wonders, Your Majesty.”

            “It’s not going to be that unpleasant,” Liam says tiredly. “It’ll be the jury doing all the work, anyway. I just have to sit there and then approve whatever verdict they come up with. And it’s not like I don’t know what they’ll say. They’ll find him guilty, because he is, and then they’ll lock him up for life without parole because someone took the death penalty off the table, and that’ll be the end of it.”

            “Still,” Zayn says. “He’s your uncle. It’s not gonna be easy.”

            “It’s gonna be a hell of a lot easier than a lot of the things I’ve had to do recently,” Liam says flatly. When Zayn just looks at him steadily, he sighs. “But no, it’s not going to be _easy_. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Zayn.”

            “You’re not used to things being easy,” Zayn says, tilting his head to shave under his jaw. “You’re going to get through this trial just fine. I _am_ giving you a vote of confidence, Liam. It’s just an honest one.”

            “I know.”

            There’s a moment of silence as Zayn finishes shaving before there’s a knock on the bathroom door, and Harry calls, “If you two are fucking in there, you have two minutes to finish up before I come in.”

            “You can come in,” Liam says, not without some annoyance, and Harry bounces in.

            “Good morning!” he chirps. “How are you two doing? You both look like hell.”

            “Thanks,” Zayn says drily. “It’s been a rough morning.”

            Harry’s eyebrows shoot up. “Do I need to discreetly smuggle a new headboard in here?”

            “More like you need to smuggle a new memory in my head,” Zayn says. “I’m assuming you two have some important things to start doing, so I’ll go get dressed and leave you to it.”

            “Right,” Harry says, deflated after Zayn’s first remark, “See you in court, right?”

            “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” There’s just enough viciousness in Zayn’s tone to remind Liam of his roots—at heart, Zayn is still a die-hard rebel who’d loudly and violently opposed Simon’s regime his whole life. There’s got to be at least some part of him that’s happy to see Simon being brought to justice, no matter how much he is also ready to console Liam over it.

            “Right,” Harry says when Zayn walks out, “I just have a few briefings for you. Just so you’ve got a better framework of the case, you know—look them over so you can ask questions today if you need to. Oh, and I have the evidence packet for you as well. Look it over for the same reasons, yeah? Although I doubt there’s anything in that you don’t already know.”

            Liam nods, feeling like he might be sick.

            “You’re going to be fine.”

            “I know.”

            “I mean it.”

            “I know.” But truthfully, when faced with the actual, physical evidence of the fact that the trial is happening today, he’s not so sure anymore. Just a few minutes ago—when Zayn had been with him—he had honestly felt like it wouldn’t be that bad. Now it’s an unsurmountable mountain in his path that he has no choice to climb, even if it kills him. “I just—Harry, I’m no match for him.”

            “You obviously are,” Harry says, “or you wouldn’t be sitting here right now. Anyway, you don’t need to talk to him. You don’t even need to look at him. God, half the country wants to lynch Simon right now; no one would blame you for giving him the cold shoulder. And don’t forget that everyone is on your side today. They all want to see him go down.”

            Liam doesn’t miss the _they_. For them—for all the nobles, really—this day is a little more complicated than the long-awaited moment of triumph it is for the commoners. None of them were directly hurt by Simon; none of them ever hated him as passionately as most people did. They all know he needs to be punished, but they’re not going to take any pleasure from seeing it happen. They spent too much time genuinely idolizing him for that.

            “What kind of king,” Liam says dully, “doesn’t want to see someone who hurt his people punished? But what kind of person wants to lock his own uncle up?”  

            “Both ways it’s a good one,” Harry says with hesitation. “But it doesn’t matter what you want, Liam. The people want a trial and a punishment and so you’re going to give them a trial and a punishment. Remember you’re a king today.”

            And when Liam says, “I can do that,” he’s not lying, but the crown has never felt this heavy.

***

            Zayn has never concerned himself with Simon Cowell, the person. The way he sees it, Simon has never concerned himself with Zayn Malik, the person, so Zayn is happy to keep his emotions towards Simon purely political. Back when he was part of a rebellion rather than a royal court, he never much cared what would happen to Simon if the rebels overthrew him—whether he was killed or exiled or whatever didn’t matter to him as long as he simply went away—and he still doesn’t much care now that Simon is powerless and at the will of the people. He just wants the whole business to be over with so it’ll stop hanging over Liam’s head.

            Still, there’s a small, vindictive part of him that can’t help but be satisfied that Simon is getting what’s due to him whenever his fingers brush against his scar-marred skin. And no matter how much he tries to shove it down, especially around Liam, he gets some sort of vengeful happiness that as much as Zayn and Simon have been sacrificed in different ways for political reasons, Simon Cowell, the person, will suffer because of the trial today, even if it’s only a fraction of the way Zayn Malik, the person, suffered.

            Basically, there’s a bit of poetic justice going on today in more ways than one, and it puts a bounce in his step when he pops into Ned’s office for a quick session before the trial, a fact that the psychiatrist is quick to pick up on.

            “It’s nice to see you looking happy today, Zayn,” he says mildly. “Has that got anything to do with a certain former king being acquainted with justice today?”

            “Their meeting is long overdue,” Zayn admits. “And yes, it’s giving me some satisfaction. I’m sure I’m not the only one.”

            Ned’s face darkens briefly. “You definitely aren’t. That man has waited long enough to be held accountable for what he did.”

            “I sense a personal vendetta here.”    

            “You’re not wrong, but we’re here to talk about you, not me.”

            Zayn rolls his eyes, settles back in his chair. “Get on with it, then.”

             “I was hoping you’d have something to start off with today, honestly. How have you been doing with opening up to your friends?”

            Zayn abruptly hesitates. “I—well. Some stuff got out. Stuff I didn’t necessarily tell them, but that they found out anyway. And I almost let it come between us, and let it push me a step back, but I got over it and we talked about it, and everything’s fine now. Or—you know—as fine as it can be.”

            “I’m glad you didn’t shut them out even after being confronted with an uncomfortable topic,” Ned says. “That’s definitely a step in the right direction. Do you think talking about it helped, even if it wasn’t something you didn’t reveal by choice?”

            “I think so,” Zayn says cautiously. “It helped in terms of them understanding me better—why I react to some things the way I do, the depth and magnitude of the things I went through. I think they sort of got the worse end of the bargain. The things I—the things I’ve been through, they aren’t things you just bounce back from. Even if you didn’t experience them, the aftermath is—not fun.”

            “Not fun indeed,” Ned says with a snort. “I’m very proud of you for making progress in this way, Zayn, but more importantly I hope you’re proud of yourself. It is—in your own words— _not fun_ or easy recovering from a traumatic experience that was as prolonged and vicious as yours, but you have been doing a splendid job. The amount of physical and psychological strength you have is astonishing, and every time we sit down here to talk I am humbled by your perseverance and determination.”

            “That’s a really nice way of saying _you’re fucked up but stubborn as hell_ ,” Zayn says appreciatively. “Did they teach you that in medical school?”

            Ned laughs. “Yeah, that’s mainly what they taught us. Every once in a while they’d throw in some actual medical knowledge, but for the main part they just lectured on how to say things nicely.” He leans forward, fiddles with the papers on his desk. Zayn refrains from rolling his eyes. “In all honesty, though, I am pleased and surprised by the progress you’ve made. Many people made your case seem hopeless, but you are living proof of the power of hope.”

            “Sure,” Zayn says, trying his best not to be annoyed by the fact that people thought he was hopeless—and that Ned apparently did too, or at least enough that he admits to being surprised at Zayn’s recovery. “I danced myself back from the edge of a rapidly crumbling psyche through sheer will force. Dermatologists hate me.”

            “Oh, don’t belittle it,” Ned says, and when he doesn’t get a response, sighs. “All right, we’ll move on. As we talked about earlier, His former Majesty’s trial is today. Thoughts?”

            “His name is Simon,” Zayn says mildly. “He’s not the king anymore, so we don’t need to call him His Majesty, former or otherwise. Not that I was doing that even when he was the king, but—you know. Some people are sticklers for titles, I get that. As for thoughts, my only thoughts are that I’m glad the bastard will finally get what’s due to him, and that I hope His Majesty won’t feel too badly over it. I can’t imagine it’ll be easy, locking up his own uncle, although I do imagine he’ll pretend otherwise.”

            “You do care a lot about His Majesty, don’t you?”

            “You’re looking at the man who volunteered to die for him,” Zayn says, raising an eyebrow. “I must say I’m a little surprised you’re only now drawing that conclusion.”

            “I was under the impression that that particular sacrifice was mostly political.”

            “Ned—you’ve never been in the position where you might have to die for someone or something, so let me just assure you of this: death—yours or anyone else’s—is never purely political. Death is inherently personal. No one volunteers to die for someone for political reasons only, mainly because political reasons are rarely enough to stop someone from seeing their family and friends and the sun again. Were my reasons for doing what I did mainly political? Yes. But I still probably wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t like His Majesty as a human being. That would have been a hard pill to swallow.”

            “Fair enough,” Ned says, and makes a note on his clipboard. “I think we’ve run out of time for now, so I’ll forgo the question of the day today and we’ll talk later this week, all right? I’ll give you a call and we’ll work out times. It was lovely speaking to you as always. Have fun in court today.”

            “I dunno if fun is the right word,” Zayn says, “but I’ll try regardless. Thanks as always.”

            And then, almost too quickly for such an important event, it’s time for Simon’s trial.

***

            Liam’s getting a bit sick of this whole not-breathing thing. He’s spent so much time being heavily invested in his right to keep taking breaths that the fact his own body is rebelling against his ability to do so is more than a little annoying. Also, the trial starts in less than ten minutes, and if he ever needed to be calm for an event, it’s this one. Today is the one godforsaken day he needs to show no weakness.

            Because life hates him, it’s also the day it’s going to be the hardest for him to do that.

            In any case, the problem here isn’t exclusively the fact that his lungs are going on strike; it’s the fact that he needs to be out and on the throne looking utterly invincible in eight minutes and thirty six seconds, and at the moment he’s lying on the carpet of his office having a panic attack. He’s vaguely aware of Niall and Louis crouching by his side trying to talk him down from it, but he’s making a conscious effort to block them out because no matter what is coming out of their mouths, it is going to make things a hundred times worse. There isn’t a single thing they can say to calm him down today; what he needs is silence and a hundred years of sleep.

            He gets the next best thing. He gets Zayn.    

            “Let me the fuck in,” he hears Zayn say outside the office doors. The guards put up a show of protesting, which Zayn seems to ignore, because the next thing Liam hears is the doors banging open and a set of footsteps striding in, quickly followed by two more pairs and a chorus of protests still pouring out of the guards.

            “Sir, we’re going to have to place you under arrest for violating the king’s private chambers without permission when he explicitly asked not to be disturbed, if you—”

            “It’s fine, gentlemen,” Liam calls with as much dignity as he can muster with his face still pressed to the carpet. “He’s got authorization from me to be let in under any circumstances.”

            “A fact you would know if you bothered to do your job correctly,” Zayn says pleasantly. “Now get out.”

            Two pairs of footsteps hurriedly leave, and the doors quietly fall shut.

            “For fuck’s sake, where’s Paddy? He never gives me trouble like that.”

            “It’s his day off,” Liam says faintly from the floor.

            “And what the holy fuck are you doing down there?”

            “He’s having a panic attack,” Niall says, despite the fact that Liam is pretty sure the question was rhetorical. “We’ve been trying to get him up and functioning for ten minutes now. And he has to get out there in five.”

            “For fuck’s sake,” Zayn repeats, but when he crouches down beside Liam and eases his hands under him he’s incredibly gentle. “C’mon then, up you come. We have to get you straightened out before we send you out there, babe. Gotta look presentable for the masses.”

            “I can’t.”

            “You can,” he says simply. When Liam doesn’t move, he rolls him over so he’s face up, grabs both his hands, and pulls him upright so he’s slumped against Zayn’s chest. “Deep breaths, babe. There’s no reason for you to be scared of him.”

            “You of all people,” Liam croaks, “should know that that never stops anyone from being scared.”

            “Then be scared. Just don’t show it. Push it down so far you swallow it. I don’t care what you do, Liam, but it’s going to be infinitely worse for everyone if you show that you’re afraid. Remember you have all the power now. He can’t do anything to anyone anymore. You won. You can do this. Do you remember that moment in the hospital when we decided to try and pull this crazy thing off? Do you remember how much courage that took, to decide that you were going to try and get the throne? It worked back then; it’ll work now. Liam—Liam. Look at me.” Zayn’s gaze is intense. “Look at me. You are untouchable. Everyone loves you. Take a deep breath. Take another one. Straighten up. Okay. Okay. Go out there.”

            “Your Majesty,” a guard calls from outside, “it’s time to commence the trial.”

            Liam takes a deep breath. Takes another one. Straightens up. And then—not a second too early or too late—walks out and settles on the throne like he owns it. Because he does.

            It’s time to begin.

***

            “Any ideas on how you’re going to unwind him after this?” Louis asks as he, Zayn, and Niall watch Liam begin the opening proceedings. “He looks like he’s going to pass out.”

            “You only see that because you know him,” Zayn says. “He looks fine to everyone out there. And yes, I do. Don’t ask, because I guarantee you that you don’t want to know.”

            “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know,” Louis says with a lecherous grin, but Niall claps a hand over his mouth.

            “Please, spare a poor asexual’s ears,” he pleads. “I’d like to focus on the trial.”

            Louis licks Niall’s hand and grins even wider as the other man makes a disgusted sound and pulls away. “Whatever you want, Horan. Let it never be said that I'm not a good friend.”

            “Scotland,” Zayn says without looking away from the court proceedings.

            “Shut the fuck up.”

            “And no Scotland-related conversations, either,” Niall says hurriedly. “In fact, let’s all be quiet and listen.”

            “ _God_ , you’re boring,” Louis says, but he turns his full attention to the court without further protest.

            It’s an interesting case, to say the least. Despite the fact that there’s little doubt about how it’ll end—everyone in the country has suffered enough because of Simon that the chances of the jury settling on anything but the strictest sentence they’re allowed to offer are slim to none—Simon’s lawyer puts up a good fight. Despite being a public defense attorney who’d been assigned the case after no one had wanted it, and who’d publicly expressed a great deal of reluctance to represent the man who’d indirectly been responsible for the murder of her fiancé, she paints an almost-convincing picture of a grief-stricken man who’d been so pulled apart by sorrow that he’d nearly taken the country with him. She doesn’t deny his crimes—no one could plausibly do that—but she does beg the court to see them in a different light: as a human if terrible reaction to pain and loss rather than the monstrous acts of indifference for his subjects that everyone perceived them to be. Zayn admires her efforts deeply, and he hopes she won’t face any backlash for her role in this. After all, it’s not as though she’s doing this willingly. She’s just doing her job.

            Simon fluctuates between bored and belligerent for most of the trial. Mostly he just sits there watching the proceedings without much interest or investment—actions that Zayn is sure do not endear him to the jury—but he’ll occasionally try to start a fight with Liam by either questioning and testing his authority or outright insulting him. Zayn is proud to see that Liam doesn’t cave to his efforts and only sends him a scorchingly disdainful glance every so often. It’s a beautiful exhibition of Liam’s ability to choke down his own fear for the sake of the country, and it’s this, more than anything, that puts a warm glow into Zayn chest as he reflects that he really did make the right choice by making sure Liam was the one to get out in one piece all those months ago. Liam was always the one that could save this country.

            (It also cements Zayn’s resolve about that present he has for Liam upstairs because the other man really does need to unwind a bit, but hey—he’s not here to bring the bedroom into the courtroom. That can wait for later).

            When it’s done, and Simon has been relegated to a life of solitary confinement in prison, Zayn breathes a sigh of relief. Liam, for his part, sticks it out until the very end, shaking hands and exchanging words with nobility until it’s obvious he can’t take it any longer and he flees back to his office, where all the boys are waiting for him.

            “I did it,” he gasps out, “I did it, and he’s gone for good. I’m so—I’m so fucking relieved. Is it bad to be relieved?”

            “It’s not bad,” Harry says gently. “You’ll come to terms with it, Li. Don’t feel guilty about being relieved over a good thing. He was your uncle, but he was a bad person, and you helped stop him from hurting anyone again. You have every right to be relieved.”

            “Now we only have the Circle trial, and then we’ll be rid of all the villains,” Louis quips. “God, what will we do then?”

            Zayn’s stomach sinks at the thought of the Circle trial—the thought of his torture being picked apart by a jury, maybe shown in a courtroom, makes him feel slightly sick—but he keeps his dread to himself and just says, “M’proud of you, babe. I knew you could do it.”

            “Don’t be smug,” Liam says with an eye-roll, but there’s affection and gratitude in his voice. “Can we all get massively drunk now? Everyone’s schedule should be clear for the rest of today and tomorrow, my chambers are empty, my liquor cabinet is full, and I just put my evil uncle into prison for good, so there’s no good reason not to.”

            “I love the way you think,” Louis says reverently, and they all head to Liam’s rooms to get massively drunk as suggested, letting themselves be rowdy and stupid as the uni-age kids they all still are for once.

            It feels normal and good and nostalgic, and if Zayn lets himself get lost in their blessedly inconsequential conversations for long enough, he almost isn’t afraid of his own upcoming challenge to overcome in the Circle trial next week.

            Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all righty, there you go. That's that plotline wrapped up all nice and neat. next chapter: smut, intrigue, and some angst. in other words, the usual. hopefully this was enough to keep you going until then!
> 
> I'm hoping to get the next update done by this Sunday, maybe Saturday if i'm lucky. So keep your eyes peeled this weekend for chapter 24, but even if it's not up then, i promise it won't be another three weeks until you get another chapter. pinky promise. 
> 
> thank you again for reading and commenting and being generally lovely, especially those people who kept telling me it was ok that i hadn't updated in a while when i kept stressing about it on tumblr. i love yall.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, im back at it again. this chapter is probably one of the shortest ones so far but i'm quite pleased with it, so i hope you guys will be too!! you can blame [J](http://smollest-louis.tumblr.com) for the sinfulness, because she's an enabler and convinced me to write most of what you will read today.

In a word, Zayn feels ridiculous.

            He turns around and inspects himself in the mirror, choking back an incredulous laugh at what he sees. To be wearing _this_ when his body still looks like _that_ —the contrast falls somewhere between hilarious and pathetic.

            Maybe this was a bad idea after all.

            He considers his reflection again thoughtfully, chewing on his bottom lip and trying to sort his thoughts out. It’s impossible for him to tell how much of this sudden insecurity is reasonable and how much is a product of paranoia and anxiety. But he knows there’d been a time when he could have strutted out into the bedroom and lounged on the bed until Liam got back without even once worrying if he looked ridiculous, and that, more than anything, tells him that he’s being stupid and overthinking it. He’s not going to let the Circle stop him from having a good time with his boyfriend—they have enough power over him already. He won’t let them taint this too.

            He stares at himself until he’s used to the sight—until he starts to feel a bit more comfortable with what he sees—until he’s no longer terrified to look at his scarred skin. His hair is growing out, and he’s put on enough weight that he no longer looks like a skeleton; he’s starting, in short, to look like himself again. It’s a deeply comforting thought.

            The door to Liam’s chamber’s clicks open, and Liam calls out, “Hey, you back yet? I’m home!”

            Zayn has a split second to make his decision—he can take this off, waltz out there, and pretend this never happened, or he can keep it on and see where this goes. After an agonized breath where he remembers every reason why this is a bad idea, he turns away from the mirror, shimmies into his jeans, forgoes a shirt, and steps out into the bedroom just as Liam is flopping down on the bed.

            “Oh, hey, you are home,” Liam says. “How’d your day go?”

            “It was fine,” Zayn says, lying down next to him and trying to ignore how fast his heart is going. “You?”

            Liam makes an inarticulate noise. “This job is going to kill me.”

            “You should quit.”

            “Very funny.” Liam loosens his tie and lets out a long breath. “Honestly, the day was fine—just busy.”

            “You need to relax. You have a whole palace of workers for a reason—they’re supposed to make your job easier. Stop acting like you have to do everything yourself.”

            “Yeah, yeah.”

            “You need to relax, Liam” Zayn repeats, but Liam just sighs and turns to face him.

            “Can we not talk for a bit?”

            “Can we pork for a bit?” Zayn mimics back, but leans in for a kiss anyway. “You have too many clothes on.”

            “Cliché.”

            “Arsehole.”

            Liam grins, sitting up and tugging his tie and jacket off at a teasingly slow pace before Zayn gets impatient and starts undoing the buttons on his shirt for him. When that’s off, Liam pushes him back against the bed, fingers teasing down his chest before settling just under the waistband of his jeans. For a moment, Liam doesn’t feel it, but then—he freezes when he feels the unfamiliar fabric. There’s a second of silence, and then he pulls back and fumbles with the zipper on Zayn’s jeans, tugging them down far enough until the fact that Zayn is wearing a pair of lace panties becomes glaringly obvious.

            Liam looks at them for what feels like three and a half years, and then looks back up at Zayn. “I’m sensing there’s a story behind this.”

            Zayn shrugs flippantly, trying to look like he’s not one fifth of a second away from shitting himself. “Think of it as something to help you relax.”

            Liam’s eyebrows shoot up. “You mean you didn’t lose a bet to Louis?”

            “Shockingly, no,” Zayn says. “Unless the next thing that comes out of your mouth is some version of ‘I don’t like it,’ in which case, absolutely yes.”

            Liam chokes out a laugh and runs a cautious finger over the lace, his expression considering.

            “They’re Versace, if that helps,” Zayn says, “If I do something, I do it well. No sale rack knickers here.”

            Liam glances up at him, eyes full of amusement. “Well, _that’s_ a relief.”

            There’s a tension filled silence for a moment, and then Zayn blurts out, “Liam, if they make you uncomfortable or something—we don’t need to—just say so. Not gonna be offended, I promise.”

            “I—” Liam shudders and strokes his thumbs over Zayn’s lace-covered hips. “I definitely like it. I guess—I’m just trying to figure out why I like it so much.”

            It takes a moment for Zayn to process that, but he’s grinning within minutes of realizing what Liam said. “You kinky little shit.”

            “Oh, don’t you _dare_ start. You were the one who came up with this. _You’re_ the one in Versace lacy women’s underwear.”

            “Underwear has no gender,” Zayn throws back. “Now come here and get my jeans off so these can be appreciated in their fullest.” He thinks for a moment, and then tacks on a _Your Majesty_ in a voice that’s just a touch huskier than normal; Liam looks torn between annoyed and aroused, but the second wins out quickly.

            Liam pulls his jeans off the rest of the way and then crowds him down on the mattress, their chests flush against each other as Liam kisses down his neck and lets his hands slip under Zayn’s body to rest against his arse cheeks, fingers massaging the rough lace against his skin.

            “Someone’s having a good time,” Zayn sing-songs, feeling Liam through his trousers and trying not to feel too smug when he sees that he’s fully hard already even before they’ve done much touching.

            “Again, you’re the one in—”

            “—how about you get the rest of your kit off, babe,” Zayn says smoothly, pushing Liam back a little. It’s not just about cutting short Liam’s teasing, or even about trying to get Liam fully naked—Zayn’s litany of mental issues has yet to interfere with their sex life, but he can get aa little claustrophobic if he’s pinned down for too long. It’s nothing debilitating, but there is a reason he chose fancy underwear over bondage when he was trying to come up with ideas to help Liam wind down. He needs space to breathe and freedom to move, even when he’s with someone he trusts as much as Liam.

            As always, Liam seems to pick up on the motive behind his words instantly; he sits back on his heels to unbutton his trousers and start kicking them off rather than staying in Zayn’s space. “All good?” he asks when his boxers join the rest of his clothes on the floor.

            Zayn takes a few deep breaths, stretches, nods. “All good.”

            “Sure?”

            “One hundred thousand percent,” Zayn says firmly, and means it. “Lie back down, and grab some pillows. I’ve got some plans for you tonight, Your Majesty.”

            After all, this is how you get better: in increments, and not all at once. The monstrosities Zayn has suffered are always going to be woven into the fabric of his everyday life from now on in some form; he can either choose to ignore them and let those memories pile up until they become unbearable, or he can acknowledge them and let them go so maybe someday, they will become less frequent. It takes a lot of courage to choose the right one, but Zayn has never been in the business of convincing anyone that life is easy. He’s more than ready for this fight.

            But back to the job at hand—Zayn watches Liam settle back and make himself comfortable with an expression that wavers between amused and helpless.

            “You don’t look like a man who’s about to experience the most spectacular night of his life,” Zayn says, trailing a hand down Liam’s chest, over his stomach, and stopping right above his cock, “but appearances aren’t everything. I hope you’re ready.”

            “Stop talking the talk and start walking the walk, Malik,” Liam says, mock exasperated. “What does a man have to do in order to get a decent blow job around here, anyway.”

            Zayn grins and settles down between Liam’s legs. “I thought you’d never ask.”

            He sinks down onto Liam’s cock at the slowest, most torturous pace he can manage; his jaw is already aching a bit by the time he’s swallowed Liam to the root, but he’ll manage. Above him, Liam shudders, reaches down to scrabble fingers through the short hairs at the back of Zayn’s head, not so much trying to control Zayn’s pace as trying to ground himself.

            “You have no idea,” Liam says hoarsely after a moment, his breath hitching as Zayn sinks a bit deeper and swallows thickly against the pressure in the back of his throat, “how amazing you look right now, Z. In those—” He breaks off and groans, hips jerking not even an inch upwards before he controls himself. Zayn’s tempted to pull off just so he can make a comment about Liam needing to stop talking the talk and start walking the walk, but unlike some people, he’s a good sport, so he doesn’t.

            Instead, he brings Liam to the edge fairly easily and then pulls off when he feels Liam’s muscles clench in preparation beneath him. Liam makes an inarticulate sound of disappointment as the warmth and heat of Zayn’s mouth disappears; Zayn chances a glance at him and sees that he’s already a mess—hair rumples, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. He looks desperate and eager and _pretty_ , and most importantly, all Zayn’s.

            “Feel good?” he asks. Tonight is all about Liam, after all—more specifically, about trying to get Liam to relax and take his mind off things, and Zayn knows from experience that there’s nothing like _feeling good_ to take your mind off things. Off _anything_ but the tightening in your groin and the heat in stomach.

            “You have no fucking idea,” Liam says almost reverently. “Do you want me to get you ready, or do you have more plans first?”

            Zayn laughs at his impatience. “Straight to the point as always. But no to both. You see,” he says settling back down between Liam’s legs and spreading his own, “I am going to get myself ready, and you, You Majesty, are going to watch.”

            Liam’s reaction is predictable as it is satisfying: his eyes widen and his breath stutters. It’s obvious this is not something he’s ever considered, but also something he instantly wants.

            “I,” he says finally, “if you’re sure.”  

            “I’m sure,” Zayn says. “Pass me the lube?”

            “Always the romantic,” Liam quips, but passes him the bottle from the nightstand anyway.

            Zayn leans back a little, takes a moment to prop himself up and get comfortable while making sure Liam has a good view, and then starts slicking up his fingers. For a moment, the only sounds are those of the wetness against his fingers, and then, slowly he begins pulling down the lace panties, his motions deliberately teasing. He doesn’t take them off all the way; rather, he just moves the fabric aside far enough for him to get a good angle and for Liam to get a good view.

            He paints, he must say, a heated and debauched picture, what with lube already smeared everywhere and his legs spread and the panties tangled up with his thighs and throbbingly hard cock. It’s an effect that pleases him; all his self-consciousness from before is gone and he lets himself enjoy the heady rush as he slowly sinks a finger into himself, preening under Liam’s heavy gaze rather than cringing from it. He makes sure to put on as much of a show as possible—he loves the tiny sounds he can coax out of Liam just by crooking his finger to give Liam a better view.

            When he’s got two fingers in, he takes his own cock into his hand and gives himself a few rough strokes through the lace of the panties. The fabric is already damp with sweat and precome, but the friction it provides is delicious; he lets himself moan and grind down against his fingers, and Liam groans helplessly in response.

            “Can I—”

            “Hands to yourself for now, babe.”

            Zayn chases his own pleasure for a few more minutes, not bothering to make terribly quick work of stretching himself open. The point of today isn’t to rush through anything, and he’s enjoying the response he’s getting from Liam far too much to hurry it; the other man is stroking himself in time with Zayn’s hands, eyes drinking in the sight before him. Zayn only stops when his entrance is loose and slick from his lubed fingers, and his cock is pulsing with the effort of holding back his climax.

            “ _Now_ you can touch,” he says, pulling his fingers out and collapsing forward into Liam’s arms. Liam’s hands instantly distract him from the sudden emptiness as he clenches after being filled up for so long.

            “Fuck—Zayn, that was—” Liam kisses up his neck hungrily, nuzzles against his jawline. “You’re fucking amazing, babe—you looked so fucking good. So fucking good, Z.”          

            Zayn tries not to feel too smug as he kisses Liam back and relishes in the knowledge that he is the one who’s brought Liam to the edge like this; he is the one who’s made him into a desperate, babbling mess. Liam is almost too beautiful to look at when he’s like this—he’s beautiful all of the time, but there’s something that pulls at Zayn’s heartstrings in moments like this, knowing that this breathtaking man is all his.

            “Lean back again, Li,” he murmurs, smudging a kiss at the corner of Liam’s mouth. “M’gonna ride you now, okay?”

            Liam moans in agreement and settles back again, his hands steadying Zayn’s hips as he watches Zayn get more comfortable and tug the panties down a bit further, making a split second to leave them at least partially on to make things more interesting. Zayn gives Liam’s cock a few firm strokes with his still-slick hand to make things a bit easier and scrabbles in the bedside drawer for a condom to roll onto him before slowly sinking down, giving himself plenty of time to adjust to Liam’s thickness. Liam’s hands tighten on his hips in response, hard enough that Zayn tries not to feel too smug about the bruises they might leave, but obediently doesn’t try to hurry him. When Liam is buried in him all the way, Zayn swivels his hips a bit, getting a bit more comfortable and trying to find the right angle; Liam lets out a helpless, aborted noise.

            “Y’like that?” Zayn asks casually, grinding a bit harder and watching pure pleasure take over Liam’s features. “You like—” But he cuts short with a groan of his own as his movements force Liam’s cock against his prostrate, and every nerve in his body lights up in response. It’s only after he collects himself that he starts riding Liam in earnest with the knowledge that he’s found the perfect angle. He starts off slow and shallow, getting them both used to the feeling and working out a pace, but before long Liam is thrusting up against him and Zayn is slamming back down to meet him half way, the sounds of skin against skin resonating obscenely throughout the bedroom.

            Neither of them last long after all of Zayn’s teasing, but Liam—desperate as he is after everything Zayn has done—comes first, his pulsing cock giving Zayn a split-second warning to pull off before he’s spilling over the edge with a dirty, delicious sound, hands vise-like against Zayn’s hips before he’s suddenly boneless beneath him. Zayn’s too far gone himself to be too smug, but he does feel a deep sense of satisfaction as he looks down at the mess he’s made of Liam—covered in sweat and hickeys, the other man looks completely blissful and most importantly, completely relaxed.            

            It’s with this thought that Zayn comes himself, jerking himself through the wave and making sure not to muffle his noises for Liam’s benefit. It’s the best orgasm he’s had in a long time—every inch of his body sings with the pleasure of it—and somehow the uncertainty he’d felt at the beginning just makes his utter abandon sweeter.

            When they’re both a bit cleaner and curled against each other in bed, Liam sends the panties, now lying discarded on the floor, a considering look.

            “You keeping those?”

            Zayn snorts. “They’re Versace, Liam, what do you think?” Then it sinks in. “What, you want to do this again?”

            “I want to do this every day of my life,” Liam says, “so yes.”

            There’s the smugness. Zayn knew he would feel it eventually. “I’m just saying that aren’t you lucky to have a boyfriend who will wear—”

            “Oh, shut _up_ ,” Liam says, but leans over to kiss him anyway.

            “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

            “Worked how?”

            “You’re relaxed now, aren’t you?”

            Liam laughs and intertwines their fingers. “I am.” There’s a long pause, and then he adds, “Thank you. I don’t think even I knew I needed that.”

            “I know.”

            “And you looked amazing.”

            “I know.”

***

            “Hey, Niall.”

            Niall looks up from his iPad and instantly smiles, standing up from his desk chair. “Liam! My man!” He glances at Liam’s guard and amends, “I mean, Liam! Your Majesty! What can I do for you?”

            “I was hoping to have a—ah—confidential discussion.”

            “We can do that,” Niall says. “Come on into the back room; it’s not bugged. And leave the thu—your noble guard out here.”

            Liam’s guards glance at him for approval, and Liam nods. “We won’t be too long,” he promises.

            He follows Niall into the backroom; it’s sparsely furnished with a table and two chairs, a cabinet, and an electric kettle. Liam sits in one of the chairs while Niall puts the kettle on and gets a bottle of brandy and a container of instant coffee from the cabinet.

            “Fancy a cuppa? I like to spice it up a bit when I’m having confidential discussions,” he says, giving the bottle of brandy a little shake.

            “Please,” Liam says gratefully, wondering how the hell Niall always knows exactly what people need.

            “Atta boy. Give the kettle another minute.” Niall adds two mugs to the collection of things on the table and settles back in his chair. “So what brings me the pleasure? And how’s Zayn doing? I haven’t seen ‘im in a bit but I’m assuming you have.”

            “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” Liam admits.

            Niall raises an eyebrow. “You two aren’t having problems, are you? Wait, did you make me come in here just so you could ask for relationship advice?”

            “No, no, nothing like that,” Liam hastens to assure him. “I just—I was wondering if—you know. If maybe we could come out. As a couple. Some day. Like Harry and Louis are going to soon.”

            “Their wedding _is_ soon, isn’t it,” Niall says with a look of mounting horror. “Fuck, I haven’t bought them a gift yet. Fuck.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, you and Zayno. Coming out. I dunno, mate, that’s a really big step. You have to realize that you’re a massively public figure. D’you think the country is ready for two kings?”

            “Who knows,” Liam says wearily. “I just—I’m sick of hiding it. After everything we’ve been through—everything he’s been through for me—it doesn’t feel right to treat him like my dirty little secret.”

            “I don’t think he minds, Li,” Niall says, his voice gentle. “I wouldn’t lose sleep over that. He would do a lot more for you.”

            “I know,” Liam says, trying not to snap. “ _He has_.”

            Niall winces. “Point taken. But you can’t think like that right, mate. Getting married or coming out because you want to or because you think Zayn wants to—that’s thinking like an individual. We had this conversation about the tapes, remember? You have to think like a king.”

            “And is there any way I can think like a king and still come out with Zayn?”

            Niall pours water into both of their mugs and adds a spoon of instant coffee each before stirring in a healthy splash of brandy. “I think so,” he says after a moment. “Have you two talked about it?”

            “Briefly, yeah. We were thinking maybe trying to spin it as an equality thing—the country has been through so many changes already, this is a new regime, it makes sense to try something new. The commoner thing can be dealt with fairly easily, because we can say it’s to ensure that something like Simon’s rule won’t happen again, because the commoners will have a much bigger say in the government if one of them is married to the king.”

            “Excellent,” Niall says. “I can work with that for sure. I think we can say that you’re marrying a bloke not only because you’re personally into men but also because the country needs to be ushered into an era of openness, and that you expressing your sexuality will encourage more equality throughout the country and world. Maybe throw in something about how after everything the country has been through, it doesn’t make sense to discriminate against the LGBTQIA community, that every group deserves a voice in the government. We can work something out. It won’t be impossible.”

            “The main problem we saw,” Liam says cautiously, “is about the heirs. Since, you know—Zayn can’t give me any.”

            Niall shrugs. “I don’t see that as a problem, really. If we’re already spinning all this bullshit about equality and openness and including everyone, then we may as well go all the way, and say that the lineage shouldn’t be merely based on birth anymore because that’s elitist. I don’t think that anyone is going to have a problem if you adopt. Again, you could say that it’s because you’re trying to include the commoners in the government more. People could end up loving you because of it if we present it the right way.”

            “So you think we have a chance?”

            “I think you have a chance. Don’t rush into anything, because you haven’t even fucking proposed yet, you little shit. But I think that I can work with all this. We’ll figure it out as we go. It helps that Zayn is a war hero, too. We’ll raise his profile a bit, have him do some charity work, make sure everyone knows how much he suffered for the country—and bam. Anyone who protests to having a saint like that in the royal family would be heartless.”

            Liam draws in a deep breath and grins as he lets it out. “I love you, Niall.”

            Niall winks. “Don’t let your boyfriend hear you saying that.”

            Liam walks out of Niall’s office half an hour later with his stomach full of brandy and coffee, and his mind at ease. Somehow, they are going to figure this crazy thing out—he can feel it. Life might just cut them a break for once.

***

            “Sir Malik? There’s a letter for you.”

            “Thanks.” Zayn takes the envelope out of porter’s hands and rips it open, humming casually as he closes the door of his chambers behind him. He’s been expecting that report on school reform in the North for a while now, it’s certainly taken its sweet time getting to him—

            He pauses as he reads the first line. This is not a school report.

            He reads the second line and tries not to scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hA i hope that smut is satisfactory. I wrote most of it at an unholy hour last night, so if there's a long keyboard smash in there, that's probably where i fell asleep on my keyboard. If you'd like to see the visual i have for Zayn's fancy underwear as well as the process of J bringing me to the dark side, take a look at [this post](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com/post/146421822405/smollest-louis-iambluehead-smollest-louis) and enjoy being a sinner. 
> 
> only two more chapters to go, and then maybe an epilogue!!!! (maybe). we're getting so close!!! i'm so sad/happy/nostalgic. the next update will be next saturday (let's hear it for me getting back on schedule) and then.....only one more chapter....:'')))


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we go, just as promised!! chapter 25, the penultimate chapter. I'm actually hugely pleased with how this turned out--probably the most pleased i've been with an update in quite a while, tbh. so hopefully you will like this as much as i do!!

Liam knows that Zayn does not ask for much, which is why he drops everything and runs when he gets a text that says _I need you_. There’s no details, no context, and no assumption that Liam will neglect his duties for Zayn, but Liam knows that if it wasn’t serious—if Zayn had any other choice than asking someone for their help—he wouldn’t have gotten the text at all.

            So he tells one of the secretaries to take care of his schedule for the rest of the day on his way out, and runs. Runs in the only direction he knows how: towards Zayn.

            When he bursts through the doors of Zayn’s chambers, unannounced and flanked by a flustered guard whom he immediately orders out of the room, Zayn avoids his half-raised arms—the invitation of an embrace that Zayn so rarely turns down—and points mutely to a torn-open envelope lying on the table. Liam crosses the room in three quick strides and rips the letter inside out.

            It’s an official court summons. Zayn is going to have to testify at the Circle trial.

            Liam does his best to muffle his sound of outrage.

            “They want me—I can’t do that, I can’t get up in front of everyone and talk about that—Liam—they want me to get on a witness stand and tell everyone what they did to me, I can’t—I can’t do that, I can’t do that, I can’t do that—” Zayn’s moving around almost frantically, his eyes never on one thing for too long. He stays on the other side of the room from Liam like he’s trying to stay out of arm’s length, and he keeps touching his wrists like he’s checking for the presence of a pulse or the absence of chains. There’s that hunted, hollow look in his eyes that he’d had when he’d first been returned to them. Liam’s chest hurts.

            “Zayn, you don’t have to. We’ll get Ned to write them a note saying that you can’t for mental health reasons—”

            But Zayn is well beyond the point of reason. “They’re going to show the footage in the trial, they say they need to ask me about it—they—I—” His fists clench and unclench desperately. Liam doesn’t need him to vocalize what he’s feeling when it’s so obvious, when Liam has seen what’s caused it. The fear, the shame, the horror is almost palpable in the room. The idea of having people—a whole throne room of people—see what Zayn has suffered is abhorrent. It’s worse than being stripped bare in front of a crowd of strangers; it shows the darkest, most humiliating and painful things in Zayn’s life. And there’s no doubt that seeing the footage himself in court—let alone being cross-examined about it—would rip away what fragile mental stability Zayn has and send him into a downwards spiral of flashbacks and panic attacks that would make this crisis look like a case of test anxiety. “I can’t—I’m gonna—if they show that—if I see that it’ll be like living it all over again, I won’t let them do that to me, I won’t—”

            “Take a deep breath,” Liam says, remembering how quickly and expertly Zayn had talked him down from his panic attack before Simon’s trial and trying to emulate his strategies. “Zayn, look at me.”

            Zayn’s chest is rising and falling far too rapidly for him to be taking any sort of deep breath, but he does glance at Liam for a fraction of a second before his eyes continue darting around the room. It takes Liam a moment before he realizes what the other man is looking for—he’s cataloguing all the possible escape routes again and again. Whether it’s something from Zayn’s rebel days, when he’d always needed a quick way out from a dangerous mission, or some sort of habit he’s picked up to cope with the claustrophobic memory of his windowless cell, it breaks Liam’s heart.

            “Zayn,” he says as gently as possible. “Zayn, babe, is it okay if I touch you?”

            Zayn shakes his head jerkily, hands flying back to his wrists.

            “Okay, that’s okay. I won’t touch you. Can you look at me?”

            Another head shake; Zayn has stopped moving and is hunched against a wall now with his arms wrapped around himself. His breaths are coming faster and faster, and Liam is struck with the sudden fear that Zayn might faint.

            “Just take a deep breath, then? Just try to stop hyperventilating.” He searches desperately for a line that will snap Zayn out of it. “I’ll make sure you won’t have to testify, okay? I promise you won’t have to. I’m the bloody king, remember? Zayn—Zayn—please—are you with me?”

            Not even a head shake this time. Zayn is empty-eyed, terribly distant, utterly gone. He’s not moving at all anymore except for his frantic breathing, which is wet and harsh in the empty room. Liam might be seeing him here safe in the palace, but he knows that in Zayn’s head, he’s back in that cell, reliving some horror triggered by the thought of having to relive them all.

            Liam has never felt so helpless.

            “Zayn,” he begs, “Zayn, can you hear me? Please, please say something.” He pauses, tries not to choke when there’s no response. “Zayn.” He takes a step closer and then thinks better of it. It’s always the safer option to give Zayn his space, especially when he already told Liam not to touch him. “ _Zayn Javaad Malik_.”

            Zayn looks up slowly, his eyes still frighteningly blank. He looks a thousand years old.

            “Zayn?”

            Zayn straightens up like he’s sleep walking and then, in one fluid motion so fast Liam barely sees it happening, let alone coming, neatly puts his fist through the mirror hanging on the wall next to him. It leaves a spider web of cracks in the glass that spiral towards the shattered center; a few shards drop out of the frame and fall to the floor.   

            Liam abruptly remembers that Zayn’s nickname amongst the rebels had been Knockout.

            Zayn steps back and inspects his bloodied knuckles with clinical interest, his breathing evening out slowly. Liam is paralyzed, wordless, and strangely taken with a sudden sense of déjà vu, even though he has never lived this day before and hopes to never live it again. It’s only after a long and terrible moment that he realizes: it’s the sight of Zayn’s blood that’s so familiar.

            “You can touch me now,” is the first thing Zayn says through the thick, horror-filled silence. He doesn’t look up at Liam.

            Liam approaches him cautiously and very gently takes Zayn’s injured hand into both of his, turning it this way and that to assess the damage. It’s not bad; not bad enough for stitches, he doesn’t think, but he’d feel better if he thought Zayn would be at all willing to get it seen by a doctor. “Was this a one-time thing, or do you have a self-destructive habit I need to be telling Ned about?” he asks finally.

            “How many smashed mirrors do you see in here?”

            Liam gives him a measured look.

            “One-time thing,” Zayn says after a moment. “I needed something to snap me out of it.”

            “And cutting your hand open struck you as a good way to do that?”

            “I’m all right now, aren’t I?”

            “I don’t know,” Liam says, “are you?”

            There’s a very long silence again. Zayn still isn’t looking at him.

            “Better than I was,” he replies at last. “Don’t give me shit about it, please.”

            “You called me here to help,” Liam reminds him. “Not the other way around. Stop pretending like you don’t need it.”

            Zayn finally meets his eyes; he looks tired but not so dead. “I’m not good at asking for help, Liam.”

            “Ask me.”

            Zayn’s eyes flicker away from his for a moment, and then he looks back, his gaze more intense than ever. “Kiss me.”

            “Zayn—”

            “You want me to ask for help, I’m asking for it. You help. Kiss me.”

            Liam searches his face for a moment, and then, as slowly as he can, leans forward and presses a careful butterfly kiss to Zayn’s lips. Zayn shudders, lets out a quiet breath. His arms are loose at his sides.

            “Helping?”

            Zayn nods ever so slightly. His eyes are closed when Liam pulls back, and the massive amount of trust that Liam would not hurt him while he wasn’t looking that must have taken makes Liam’s heart throb. He carefully raises Zayn’s wrist to his lips and kisses the soft skin on the inside of his arm where Zayn’s fingers had been desperately pressed just moments before. He repeats the motion on his other arm, hoping that the gentle touches will help erase the memory of manacles, of being pinned down, of not having a way out.

            “I need to stop your hand bleeding, yeah?” he says softly after a minute. “Come to the bathroom and we can get you cleaned up.”

            “It’ll stop on its own in a second,” Zayn mutters, but lets Liam lead him to the bathroom.

            Liam roots around in the cupboard until he finds a basic First Aid kit that has a bottle of antiseptic and some medical gauze. He wets some gauze under the faucet and makes to start cleaning up the smeared blood on Zayn’s hand. Zayn looks at him in faintly amused surprise.

            “What, y’think I can’t do this myself? I’m fairly sure I’ve done more First Aid than you, Little Lord Fauntleroy.”

            “Oh, shut it and let me take care of you,” Liam says, his cheeks heating up a bit regardless. Zayn, for his part, puts up a show of grumbling but eventually holds out his hand and lets Liam mop away the blood.

            “Antiseptic now, yeah? It’s—”

            “I swear to God that if you tell me it’s going to sting, I will punch you in the face. I know it’s going to sting and I promise you I’m not going to feel it.”

            “So macho,” Liam throws back mockingly, soaking a wad of gauze in the fluid and taking Zayn’s hand again. He watches Zayn for a reaction when he first swipes the wad over his knuckles, but Zayn doesn’t even blink, let alone flinch. Liam’s fairly sure he’s doing it mainly for show, but it’s still equal parts impressive and saddening.

            When he’s satisfied that the jagged cuts are clean, Liam wraps them up in clean gauze and seals them with a strip of medical tape and a kiss, pleased with his work.

            “Good as new,” Zayn says, holding up his hand to examine Liam’s handiwork with good humor. “You should have been a doctor, not a king.”

            Liam follows him out of the bathroom and together they sit down on the sofa, choosing to ignore the bloodstained glass on the floor until later—an idea Liam doesn’t abhor only because there are greater matters at hand. The letter is still on the sofa cushions where Liam had thrown it down; he expects Zayn to avoid it and pretend nothing happened, but the other man picks it up and skims it over again. Liam waits patiently.

            “I think I’m gonna do it,” Zayn says finally. “I think I’m gonna testify.”

            If Liam had been standing up, he would have dropped to the floor in surprise. As it is, he sags against the back of the couch for a moment before gathering his sense. “I’m sorry, _what_?”

            “I’m going to testify against the Circle. It’ll be poetic justice, innit.”

            “Zayn.” Liam searches for the words that always seem to evade him in situations like these, when he can’t even express how bad an idea the notion he’s supposed to be supporting is. “ _Zayn_. Poetic justice is not a good enough reason to put yourself through hours of trauma when I could very easily arrange for you not to have to do it.”

            “I know you could, and I’m choosing to do it anyway,” Zayn says calmly, belying the panic he’d been showing earlier. “Poetic justice may not be a good reason, but my mental health is. Revenge is. And knowing that I would regret it if I didn’t is.” He pauses, thinking for a moment. “I was thinking while you were cleaning me up—what do I have to lose? A few hard-fought inches of recovery in my own head, that’s all. I’ve already lived through the worst things the world could possibly throw at me, you know?”

            “Don’t belittle the progress you’ve made,” Liam says. “You have a lot to lose if you relapse entirely, Zayn.”

            “Yeah, and how much progress do you think I’m going to make if I back down from this? That’s letting the Circle win all over again. The only way I’m ever going to start getting really, truly better is if I get used to standing up and fighting again, and there’s no better way to do that than doing this.”  He thinks for a moment again, and then adds, “In a perfect world, I could get on the witness stand and tell every single person in the goddamn world what they did to me, and let everyone know how fucked up and wrong it was, and let everyone see how badly they should be punished. But I still know I can’t do that—I can hardly talk to you about what happened, let alone a whole room full of strangers. So I’m going to get Ned to write me a note like you suggested, and I’m going to tell them that the only way I can testify is if I’m not made to watch the footage, and if I can testify in a private room with the attorneys and the jury. If I need you to pull some weight to make that happen, I’ll ask you to, but I don’t think there’ll be any problems. I need to get this out of me, Liam. I need to know that I did my part in locking them up and that I fought for myself and won after all this time of lying down and letting them hurt me even after I escaped. It’s not going to fix everything—it might even make things worse—but I have to try regardless. This is my decision.”

            Liam looks at him: he still has a nervous set to his shoulders but his eyes are clear and alert and determined. Liam has never thought of it this way; that Zayn, a fighter with every bone in his body, would be frustrated by the prisons of his traumatized mind and body which refused to let him stick to his guns, that he would need to start fighting again to feel like the old Zayn again. And this is truly a fight to be reckoned with, after all. This is a battlefield ridden with unexploded bombs of memory and trauma, and that, Liam knows, is exactly why Zayn has decided to start his crusade here.

            “It’s your decision,” he agrees finally. “But promise me you won’t do it if they won’t give you the conditions you asked for. It’s too dangerous for your mental health otherwise.”

            “I promise. I wouldn’t have set those terms if I didn’t need them met.”

            Liam nods. If there’s one thing Zayn can be counted on doing, it’s sticking to his principles, and if he says that he needs something to preserve his mental health, the jury better provide it or they can kiss his testimony goodbye. It’s not enough to make Liam love the idea, but he trusts Zayn to take care of himself and keep his word.

            “Are you sure this is what you need?” he asks, just because he can’t let things lie and he needs to be sure. “You cut up your hand pretty seriously just now because it was the only thing that could pull you out of the panic attack you had at the thought of testifying. I just—want to make sure you’re entirely certain you’re making the right choice.”

            “I’m sure,” Zayn says. “The panic attack was fun while it lasted but I don’t think I’ll have another one over this.” After a moment, he laughs with only a touch of hollowness and adds, “Not one that bad, anyway. Most of it came from having to get up and do it in front of everyone. Combine a fear of public speaking with PTSD, a hatred of the limelight, and a firm sprinkling of the complete recorded collection of the worst events of my life, and you have yourself an easy recipe for punching holes in mirrors. Take the public speaking and the limelight out of it, and you just have my everyday life.”

            “I knew you were gonna start with the morbid jokes eventually,” Liam grumbles. “I guess I know you’re okay for sure now, at least. The more morbid your jokes are, the better you’re feeling.”

            “Sorry I’m not as hilarious when I’m waking up at four am trying not to scream after a fantastic go-around of nightmares.”

            “Case in point,” Liam says, making a note on an imaginary piece of paper. “But back to the matter on hand—if you decide to pull through with this, you’re going to have to be very careful. Do you want to pull up a list of forbidden topics, maybe? Especially triggering things for them to avoid or something?”

            “I don’t know if they’ll allow that in a court, honestly,” Zayn says. “That might look like I don’t want to tell the whole trust, or like I have something to hide.”

            Liam nods, taking his lack of elaboration as acceptance of the fact that he’ll have to talk about everything, no matter how painful. “You also do realize that they’ll probably record or film it, and that if they do, it’ll have to go into public records so people won’t think they made the ruling on biased or falsified evidence.”

            Zayn pulls a face. “Not thrilled about that.”

            “I can see if there’s any way you can be exempt.”

            “Don’t bother. I don’t want to push my luck, and maybe it’ll be better for people to see what I say, anyway. Maybe it’ll help someone who went something similar. Maybe it’ll help the last few Circle supporters realize what their superiors were up to. At the very least, it’ll make me look like a hell of a sympathetic, heroic veteran with an honorable past of suffering for his country. And that’s going to make things a lot easier when it comes to you and me going public, if we decide to.”

            “That’s not the right reason to do this, Zayn.”

            “Give me one good reason why it’s not,” Zayn shoots back. “I think you’re forgetting the part where everything in our lives is political. That means our relationship and my PTSD and certainly how I choose to present myself to the public. If I can exploit what happened to me, I will. Even if you and I never choose to come out for whatever reason, I have other things I want to do with my life, too, and having that kind of reputation will be a huge help considering I can’t really pull rank or have connections or exploit my illustrious family background.”

            “Nothing,” Liam says forcefully, “is ever purely political. Not when it’s something like this.”

            “I have a million reasons for choosing to do this,” Zayn says. “A lot of them are political, a lot of them aren’t. But all of them are _my_ reasons because it’s my mind and my body and my goddamn decision, and I’d really like—” his voice is rising “—to just feel like I have some fucking measure of control over what happens to me.” He’s almost shouting by the end of the sentence. Liam can feel some of that ugly, frantic, restless energy from before seeping back into him.

            “Okay,” Liam says finally. “You’re right—it’s your decision, and I’m going to respect it.”

            “Okay.”

            “Okay.”

            There’s a long silence, and then Liam adds, “I’m just trying to look out for you, Zayn. Seeing you like—seeing you so distant and shut off and afraid earlier, I—it was fucking terrifying. I’m just trying to make sure you’re going to be okay.”

            “I know,” Zayn says tiredly. “I’m sorry for yelling.”

            “Don’t be.”

            They sit together in silence after that until the room is darkening with the sky outside around them. Behind them, the shards of the broken mirror wink bloodily in the dying light.

***

            “You’re fucking insane.”

            “I know.”

            “You’re bloody crazy.”

            “I know.”

            “You’re absolutely mad.”

            “I _know_.”

            Louis pauses to glare at Zayn out of the corner of his eye. “Are you just doing this out of spite?”

            “I actually have a couple good reasons for doing this,” Zayn says mildly. “Doing things out of spite is more your style.”

            Louis resumes his pacing with an eye roll so dramatic Zayn’s faintly concerned he might blind himself. “You are the king of bad ideas.”

            “I’m not arguing with you.”

            “This is a worse idea than—”

            “Don’t you dare say Scotland because it is _not_.”

            Louis swears—a beautifully expressive string of creatively composed verbs and nouns that suggests that Zayn can take his grand ideas of testifying and forcefully shove them in an unlikely place. “When are you doing it?” he tacks on as an afterthought.

            “Friday,” Zayn says, preemptively wincing.

            “And you just thought you’d tell me _now_?” Louis yelps. “It’s fucking Wednesday, Zayn! You could have given me more of a heads up! I’m the one that’s going to be helping you through the mental break you’ll give yourself from doing this, for God’s sake! It’s just common courtesy to give me a few more days to buy an adequate supply of alcohol.” He pauses, considering. “I’ll invite Liam, too, maybe. He can help me calm you down, and it’ll be nice to get drunk with him for old times’ sake.”

            Zayn raises an eyebrow. “Something you need to tell me?”

            Louis rolls his eyes again and waves him off. “We just used to get drunk together a lot back in the day. But then Harry was a spoilsport, and you came back, so we stopped doing it.”

            “What does me coming back have to do with it?”

            “Why the hell do you think we were getting drunk in the first place, arsehole? Because _someone_ just had to throw himself at the Circle and get everyone else worked up about him dying. Talk about inconsiderate.”

            Zayn is oddly touched. “Somehow that’s not quite how I pictured myself being mourned,” he quips to mask this fact.

            Louis stops and glares at him again. “That’s because people always think grief is prettier than it is. It’s fucking ugly. You of all people should know that, Zayn.”

            Zayn takes a deep breath, suddenly unable to meet Louis’ eyes. “You know, I never said this, but I’m sorry.”

            Louis is so surprised he forgets to keep glaring. “I—for what?”

            “For throwing myself away like I was the only one that would affect. For taking away your chance to say goodbye. For breaking our promise.”

            Louis looks away, blinks hard. They’re sixteen again, new recruits in the rebellion with shitty old guns neither of them know how to use, huddled on the same bunkbed together, making promises to each other in the dark that they will never speak of again: _no martyrs, no getting killed, no leaving each other behind. We’re not going to die. We are never going to die. They can’t kill us, they can’t take us, they can’t scare us. Don’t you ever fucking stop wanting to live. We are never going to die._

            “Don’t fucking apologize,” Louis says savagely. “You didn’t break the promise. You didn’t do anything but what you had to.”

            “I—”

            “I said _don’t apologize_ , Malik. Even if you’d done anything wrong, you’ve paid for it a thousand times over. I don’t want to hear you apologizing for that ever again.”

            “I—”

            “I will kick your arse, Malik.”

            Zayn subsides after that, but the air feels clearer between them anyway. There’s a hurt too deep for words surrounding Zayn’s decision to stay behind for all of them. Something had to be said, and he had said it. Someday, he thinks—someday they will be able to look back at that time without pain, but for now, it is enough to know that they all hurt the same.

***

            Zayn wears his dark blue suit and an expression of steely calm when he walks into the room where he’ll spend the next twelve hours testifying for the jury. Liam knows that he’s a fucking mess inside—after all, Liam had been the one to hold him over the toilet bowl as he retched up his breakfast from nerves and anxiety this morning—but no one knows that except him and the boys, and it’s not like any of them are telling. No, today the jury are getting the polished, professional military man that they’ve all been expecting.

            And today they get to watch him being cut apart.

            Liam and the boys have business to be done while Zayn’s with the jury, so it’s not like they can all be hovering outside anxiously like Liam’s sure they’d all like to, but by unspoken agreement they’d all cleared their schedules starting an hour before Zayn’s due to be finished. If there’s ever been a time when Zayn needed support, it’s today, and they all want to be sure they can be there for him. Louis had also mentioned the large supplies of alcohol and chocolate he’s got in his chambers; Liam is sure they’ll be making a visit there not too long after Zayn is done.

            He’s distracted and nervous all day—he accidentally addresses a bill proposal to the wrong duchess at one point, and get a frostily polite email response informing him of the mistake—but he’s not as bad as Harry, who snaps at the Duke of Rochester to kindly shut the fuck up about farming subsidies. Luckily, Niall’s there to smooth over the damage by convincingly pretending to be very interested indeed in farming subsidies. To be fair, it’s Niall, so maybe he really _is_ interested. It’s fucking hard to tell with him, sometimes.

            Finally, they get through the agonizingly long eleven hours, and then hastily make their excuses and make a run for it back to the private courtroom.

            “Reckon he’s going to be all right?” Louis mutters, pacing back and forth like a caged lion. “They would have sent him out if he was really losing it, right?”

            “Probably,” Niall says. “If only for the fact that he’s not much use to them if he’s having a mental breakdown.”

            “Bastards,” Louis mumbles, but the word has much less enthusiasm than he’d normally use—proof that he’s just as nervous about this as the rest of them.

            Zayn stumbles out fifteen minutes late, his eyes hollow and his tie undone. There’s a terrible weariness in his stance, but when he sees them waiting for him, the corner of his mouth jerks up discernibly.

            “Get me out of here,” he says when he walks up to them. “Please.”

            “We’re going to my place,” Louis says instantly. “C’mon, Malik, I’ve got booze and sweets.”

            “I love you,” Zayn says fervently.

            They nearly run the two flights of stairs to Louis’ chambers; Zayn is looking worse by the minute, and they all know it’s better for him to have a breakdown in private than in the middle of the palace where anyone could see and later use it against him. When they’re finally behind the safety of closed doors, Louis rounds on him and says, “Well? How was it?”

            “I,” Zayn says, and then turns into Liam’s waiting arms and cries, and cries, and cries.

***

            He’s all right, really; the tears are ninety percent shock and ten percent relief, but the boys look at him like he’s dying.

            “Oh, shit,” Louis says, “oh, shit, I am so sorry I asked. Zayn, please stop crying—Zayn. Stop that. Please. I’m sorry.”

            Zayn gulps, gasps, sniffles. Keeps crying. “I’m f-fine,” he says, half frustrated, half amused. “I’m _fine_ , m-my God. M’just—relieved.”

            Liam pats his back and lifts his face with three fingers under his chin. “You sure you’re all right?” he asks gently.

            “I’m not all right,” Zayn says, “but I’m g-getting there.” When everyone gives him looks of varying degrees of incredulity, he sighs and wipes his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “Seriously. I’m not dying. I’m not having a panic attack. I’m not having flashbacks. I’m just in shock, I guess. I’m so fucking glad that’s over.”

            “Were they really harsh on you, then?” Harry asks as Louis starts pouring drinks and opening bags of chocolate.

            “It wasn’t that, necessarily, it was just—tough to do. Although they were a bit harsh at parts. But at least it’s over.” This isn’t technically a lie; the jury hadn’t taken pains to be gentle or tactful with their questioning, but he doesn’t feel they were doing anything more than their job required. But it’d still been an enormously difficult experience. Ripping himself open for a room of strangers like that had been almost painful to do; even though the audience had been smaller than he’d thought at first, he still hadn’t been in any way prepared to talk about his experiences with strangers.

            Luckily, the boys seem to sense that he wants to move on and let it be; they get down to the business of eating and drinking without much further discussion. The only conversations are the light-hearted bantering between the boys as they poke fun at the stuffy aristocrats they work with—Zayn is content to sit and watch and listen rather than join in. He’s done enough talking for today.

            As the evening progress, Zayn realizes that the more time he puts between himself and his testimony, the gladder he is that he did it. It was something he hadn’t even known he’d needed—taking a stand against the Circle had definitely been part of it, but there’d also been something about having a group of people so focused on learning every detail of his imprisonment that had been strangely validating. It was like they were officially acknowledging that yes, he’d given up a lot for the country and yes, he’d suffered a great deal.

            And then, having the boys waiting for him, sitting with him now just so he knows they’re there—that’s living, breathing proof of all the reasons he’d done what he’d done, both today and two years ago. Because he would give a lot for the country, but there is nothing he would not give for his boys.

            He’s not saying that he’s glad things happened the way they did, but he is saying that if he’d had to suffer so much—if there is no universe where he does not shed his blood for a cause greater than himself—he is glad that this is where he’s ended up: in a room full of light with people who love him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a happy ending after all that angst :'))) ahhh what a wild ride this fic is lmao i hate myself. 
> 
> in case anyone's curious: i did try writing the actual scene where Zayn is testifying, but it came out awkward and too long and full of overly formal legal jargon, so i decided to cut it :// i'm of the opinion that the build up and the aftermath--and how it affects Zayn's mental state--are more important than the actual event, but i know some people would probably have liked to see the actual action. so if u are one of those people, im sorry but i'm just trying to save you from some truly awkward writing. 
> 
> the next (and last) chapter will be up next saturday as usual!!! i'm flying back to the states this week after seven weeks of being abroad as well, so i'll have the strangely satisfying knowledge that i'll be able to finish this fic on the same continent i started it on. just in case any of you were interested i guess lmao. 
> 
> next week i'll also be sharing some news about the next few fics i'll be writing, so look forward to that! if you're following me on tumblr, i'll probably be talking about it on there before next saturday, so keep an eye on my blog this week i guess?? okay enough rambling that's all i'm tired thank u for reading


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all righT i'll save the sentimental shit for the end notes but let's just say that this chapter was massively hard for me to write, mainly because i'm an emotional hoe who got deeply nostalgic halfway through writing this and went back to the beginning to reread the entire first half of the fic for old times' sake lmao.
> 
> (The lmao was tacked on the end to conceal the fact that i am dying inside at the thought of not having this fic in my life anymore haha fun times). 
> 
> anywAY we finally have a fairly positive fluffy chapter at last (it only took 26 of them am i right ladies) so go enjoy reading that and then join me for more Screaming in the end notes

“Here’s a tip,” Louis says. “Zayn. Zayn. Are you listening? I have a tip for you: don’t ever, ever get married. As your older and wiser brother, I can tell you with utter certainty that it’s a bad idea and you should never do it. Okay?”

            “I’m sensing that you’re in the ‘I’m regretting my decision to have the most extravagant wedding on the planet’ stage of your decision to have the most extravagant wedding on the planet,” Zayn says drily. “Tell me, is it the questionable decision to have potted orchids as your party favors or the knowledge that I’ll embarrass you to hell and back in my best man speech that’s putting you off?”

            “Oh, shut up. _Your_ wedding is going to be way worse than mine, anyway, so you don’t have room to talk—you’re going to have a _royal_ wedding. The whole world is going to be obsessed with you. Yankee Candle might even come out with a scent line based on your unique musk.”

            “Please never say the words ‘unique musk’ in reference to me or anyone else ever again,” Zayn says. “Also, I have no plans to get married anytime soon, so you don’t need to be worrying about any of that.”

            Louis stops in the action of tying his tie and gives Zayn a withering look. “ _I have no plans to get married anytime soon_ , he says. Please. You’ll be wedded and bedded by this time next year, I can tell you that for sure.”

            “Technically, I’m already bedded.”

            “Things I never needed to hear about: your sex life,” Louis says boredly. “Anyway, my point is that weddings are a huge hassle and you shouldn’t ever bother having one. But also if you don’t marry Liam soon I’ll fucking kill you both.”

            Zayn ignores this last comment. “I feel like you should have done something about your aversion to weddings sometime before the night of the wedding rehearsal,” he says. “Speaking of which, are you done getting ready? We’re already late.”

            Louis sighs and checks his reflection in the mirror one more time. “Yeah, I’m done. Let’s get going.”

            Louis and Harry are indeed getting married in two days, and it’s been the talk of the palace—and of the nation—for days. It’s been a surprisingly well-received affair, which does make Zayn hopeful for his and Liam’s future. But to be fair, Harry and Louis aren’t facing quite so many barriers and traditions as he and Liam will. Harry is the second child in his family, meaning that there aren’t any pressures to produce heirs, and even though he’s a relatively high-profile noble because of his closeness to Liam, he has nowhere near the level of scrutiny and celebrity Liam has. Maybe most importantly, he’s not the first noble to come out as gay—while it’s rare and somewhat frowned-upon in the aristocratic community, there are out nobles, and even more that harbor their sexuality as an open secret. Liam will be the first king to ever announce his attraction to men.

            But today isn’t about how much easier Louis and Harry have it compared to him and Liam. It’s about the overjoying fact that they’ve finally gotten their shit together for long enough to plan this ridiculously overdone affair, and that they’ll finally be legally joined as man and husband. Needless to say, there have been several long quibbles over who is the man and who is the husband. But like most of the arguing they’ve been doing lately, it’s mostly for show, and also utterly sodden with love-sick glances and lingering touches that make Zayn wish he didn’t have eyes.

            (He’s ecstatically happy for the two of them.)

            (He would never tell them that.)

            (He’s told them several times already.)

            They end up being late to the rehearsal, but it’s fine because Harry and Liam are too, and so they’re met by a very early and pissed-off group wedding party who are very curious to know why the grooms, one of the best men, and the wedding officiate are late to their own wedding rehearsal. Niall, as Harry’s best man, is standing behind Harry’s furious sister Gemma with a glass of wine and a smug smile. How he got here on time—even early, by the sounds of it—Zayn has no idea, because when he’d left to go drag Louis out of his room, Niall had texted him saying he wasn’t even dressed yet. But he doesn’t question it—with Niall, it’s often best not to.

            Harry and Louis have played with the traditional wedding arrangements out of necessity; after a prolonged and heavily thought-out discussion over who would walk down the aisle, they decided to fuck the heteronormative standard and both walk down the aisle side by side and accompanied by their mothers. The rest of the wedding party is made up of their respective sisters, Niall and Zayn, and a few other friends from the aristocracy and the rebellion. It’s an eclectic and unconventional group to say the least, but Zayn thinks that the tweaks they’ve made to the usual lay out and the people they’ve picked will make the wedding one to remember, if only because of the fact that they’ve decided to wear powder blue suits.

            “If you’re going to make the wedding party wear those atrocities, you can find yourself another best man,” Zayn had said when he’d seen the plans.

            Louis rolled his eyes. “You’ll look fine in them. You look fine in everything.”

            “No one,” Zayn said, “looks good in a powder blue tuxedo, Louis. No one.”

            “Niall will wear them, won’t you, Niall?” Harry had said pleadingly, perhaps hoping that at least one of the best men would be cooperative. “It’ll match your eyes. You’ll look really handsome.”

            Niall had snorted. “The day you put me in a light blue suit is the day you put me in my coffin. Not a day before, Harry. Not a day before.”

            So they’d reached a compromise which has the two grooms in the blue suits and black ties, and the wedding party in black suits and matching blue ties. Zayn still isn’t sure how they’d managed to change their minds, but he’s thankful they dodged that bullet. It’s the least Harry and Louis could do to make up for the fact that they’re stuck in a sweaty celebration hall for the next four hours on a Friday night. This isn’t even the goddamn wedding, for fuck’s sake. Zayn has no idea why you need to rehearse a wedding, but from what he’s heard from Gemma’s apoplectic scolding in the past five minutes, it’s crucial.

            “How’re you doing?” Liam asks under his breath as Harry and Louis finally appease Gemma and turn face down the wrath of their mothers.

            “I’m being thankful that neither of us has any family to yell at us if we ever end up doing this,” Zayn says just as quietly.

            Liam snorts. “Honestly, it’s the only time I’ve ever been grateful for that.” He pauses, shoots Zayn a sideways glance. “That’s not what I meant, though.”

            “I know.” Zayn had found himself in the shower this morning with no idea how he’d gotten there; Liam had told him later that they’d woken up together, had a conversation, and that he’d gotten up to shower after about an hour of being awake already. Zayn still doesn’t know what had triggered his memory loss—he suspects it might have been a flashback connected to nearly drowning, but there’s no way to know—but he’d nearly had a panic attack when he’d finally come to. Things like these are happening with less and less frequency these days, but it’s still disconcerting each time it happens.         

            “I’m fine,” he says. It’s not necessarily a lie; for all Zayn’s complaining about the wedding preparations, they’ve been a great distraction for him today. “Seriously. I’m dealing with it.”

            “Dealing with it doesn’t mean you’re doing good.”

            “When am I ever doing good?” Zayn says. “I’m taking it one step at a time, Liam. Two months ago I wouldn’t be able to do anything today because of what happened this morning. The fact that I’m here means that I’m doing as good as I ever am.”

            Liam looks at him for a long moment, and then simply says, “Okay.” It might come off as abrupt to anyone else, but Zayn knows that his lack of protest means that he’s just taking Zayn at his word. The boys are all working at being less protective of him, but Zayn knows that one of the hardest things for them is trusting him to tell them when he’s not doing okay. He can’t blame them—because of the sort of life he’s led, it’s been engrained in him to ignore pain and discomfort and trauma in favor of staying on the move and appearing strong—but they’re all slowly getting better at it. He’s more willing to tell them when he’s not okay, and they’re more willing not to pressure him. They’re all slowly getting better in general, really. It’ll take years for the effects of what they’ve all been through to fade, but the important thing is that they’re still here. Zayn knows firsthand the effectiveness of clinging to life and health by your fingernails, and he knows survivors when he sees them. They’ll be all right, his boys. They’re going to be all right.

            “Let’s get this shitshow on the road, shall we?” Louis snaps, storming past them. He’s looking markedly peevish after being yelled at by a majority of the women in his and Harry’s combined families. “I’ve had enough of being told that I’m an irresponsible fuck who’s incapable of being on time for my own wedding.”

            “I mean,” Zayn begins, but Louis cuts him off by slapping his shoulder with a bit more force than necessary.

            “Say one more word, and I will personally make sure they never find your body.”

            “You’ve already gone through not being able to find my body, and from what I hear you weren’t thrilled about it,” Zayn says. “Are you hoping it’ll be better the second time around, or—”

            “ _One more word_ , Zayn.”       

            Zayn grins and falls into place with the rest of the wedding party as Louis strides off to yell at the long-suffering musicians, who have been there are an hour already waiting for them all to get their shit together. Zayn hopes that they’re being paid well.

            They get through the wedding rehearsal without anyone killing anyone else, which Zayn thinks is an accomplishment in itself, and then agree between the five of them go out for drinks once it’s done. Liam puts up a token fight that it’s not a good idea for them to be seen out drinking, much less at such a late hour, but Niall promptly shuts down his opposition by saying he knows of a good bar that has an exclusive VIP top floor where they won’t be seen and bothered.

            “We can even buy out the whole floor if you’re that worried,” he says casually. “They let you do that, you know.”

            “No need for that,” Liam says, sounding resigned. “Let’s go. We’ll need to call a few more security guards, though. Paddy’ll have a fit otherwise.”

            So they call up more guards, and sure enough, the bar is the perfect place. People leave them alone, except for a few other aristocrats that are there who greet them merrily and without fuss.

            “How’d you find this place?” Harry asks as they get their drinks and sit down. “It’s, like, what I’ve been looking for my entire life. You know how hard it is to sneak out and get a good undercover drink when you’re a young noble? It’s virtually impossible.”

            “I’m sure he knows,” Louis says. “He was once a young noble too.”

            “He’s Niall, which means I’m sure he never had a problem sneaking out, and he’s Irish, which means he probably didn’t need to sneak out. The Irish just don’t give a fuck about their nobility being any better than them.”

            Niall grins. “Couldn’t have said it better myself, Haz. I found this place through an old friend; he’d heard that I was hanging out with the big time crowd and thought we might need a good place to go wind down without everyone knowing where we were.”

            “Any point in asking who this friend is?” Liam’s voice is that of a man who’s asking a question he already knows the answer to.

            “A man needs a few secrets, Liam.”

            “Or if you’re you, more secrets than anyone could possibly count.”

            “Same thing.” 

            The conversation dies after that for a bit; they’re all tired and thirsty, and the drinks here are phenomenal.

            “How does it feel knowing you’ll be married men in two days?” Liam asks finally. “We didn’t plan you two a stag party, sorry. We thought it’d be a little weird to have two stags, because then, like, would we have two parties? Just one party? How would we all split up if there were two?”

            “Oh, it’s fine,” Harry says. “I think we’ve got enough of a production going on as it is. But it is a little crazy to know that I’ll be legally bound to this idiot for the rest of my life on Sunday. S’a bit scary, to be honest.” He laughs when Louis makes an indignant squawk. “Sorry, babe.”

            “Oh, I don’t know about for life, Harry,” Zayn says with a lazy grin. “You can always get divorced, you know. Don’t worry, we’ll all understand if you show up on Monday morning asking him to sign the papers.”

            “What Zayn means to say is that I’m a marvelous best friend and he’s sure I’ll be an even better husband,” Louis says, elbowing him.

            “That is not what I meant to say.”

            “Shut up, yes it was.”

            “Anyway,” Liam says hastily before the argument can progress, “I’m really happy for the two of you; you really deserve to be happy together.”

            Harry smiles fondly, reaching out to scrub an affectionate hand through Liam’s hair. “Thanks, Li. I can’t wait for when we can all do this for you and Zayn.”

            There’s a very long silence, and then Harry claps both his hands over his mouth. “Wait—have you two not—are you not going to—I just assumed—”

            “We’ve been talking about it,” Zayn says slowly, “but I mean—it’s not—no one’s asked. It’s not, like, official. We haven’t—yeah.”

            “Don’t kid yourselves, it’ll happen,” Louis says. “Once they’ve worked up the balls to ask, we’ll never hear the end of it. Can you imagine—a gay royal wedding? The Americans will go nuts.”

            “What part of _it’s not official_ do you not understand?” Zayn asks, but there’s no real fire behind his voice.

            Harry and Niall tactfully steer the conversation in other directions, and a few minutes later, Liam asks Zayn if he wants to go help him get more drinks. They get up and walk to the bar; Liam orders refills of everything they’d gotten and then turns to Zayn.

            “All this stuff with Haz and Lou has started me thinking.”

            “A dangerous practice,” Zayn quips, ignoring the way his heart beats faster. “About what?”

            “Us. And like—you know. How that could be us.”

            “Are you asking me to marry you?”

            “No! No. Not yet. I wouldn’t—not here. But like. I want to?”

            “I want to, too,” Zayn says quietly. “We could, you know. You know that there’s nothing stopping us. We can take whatever bullshit people come up with to try and stop us.”

            Liam takes a deep breath. “I know. Just—let me do it?”

            Zayn chokes back a laugh. “Are you asking me to let you propose?”

            Liam flushes and turns to pay the bartender as he rolls his eyes. “Listen, I’d just really like to, okay? I’d really like to be the one to ask. If that’s okay with you.”

            “Yeah,” Zayn says, warmth flooding his chest as he watches Liam try to balance the drinks tray, his cheeks still pink and his eyes bright as he glances up at Zayn. “Yeah, that’s okay with me.”

***

             Harry and Louis’ wedding is spectacular. Zayn honestly thought that it would crash and burn halfway through—hell, he thought it would crash and burn fifteen minutes in—but everything goes more smoothly than he would have ever been so optimistic as to imagine. The grooms arrive on time, the powder blue suits don’t look too horrendous, the wedding party makes it down the aisle in one piece, and the long-suffering musicians play beautifully. It’s a little hilarious to see Liam solemnly asking Harry and Louis to say their vows and then saying, “You may now kiss each other,” but it’s also really sweet and he does a good job. And Zayn’s not just saying that because he’s got a ridiculous boner for him, either.

            Their vows are long and rambling and filled with private jokes and many repetitions of “and honestly I hated you so much when we first met that it’s unbelievable that we ended up here,” but they also make everyone cry—yes, Zayn included. And if he’s being truthful, it’s not that unbelievable to him that they ended up here, even considering how they first met. There’s always been something that feels fated about Harry and Louis—about all five of them—and while it would have seemed preposterous at the time, in retrospect, it seems impossible for it to have turned out any other way. And Zayn hates being reflective and getting sentimental over how far they’ve come, but as he watches Louis stretch up on tiptoe to press a kiss to Harry’s lips to the cheers of the guests, he can’t help but be deeply touched by all the odds they’ve overcome to get here. Not even a year ago, Zayn himself had been struggling to find to will to live even one more second, to draw in even one more painful, tortured breath. And now here he is, watching two of his best friends in the world get married.

            What he said to Liam on Friday is true—he’s never doing good by any normal standard of the word—but that doesn’t stop him from being happy. Every single fucking day is another fight against his body and mind, and every single fucking day he goes to bed with another million reasons to keep on living.

            The wedding ends with a spectacular dinner in the palace banquet hall; former rebels and aristocracy mingle freely, drinking and dancing and talking together. As he walks through the crowd to find the wedding party’s table, Zayn reflects that it’s like a vision of the future they’d all imagined for the country all that time ago in a cramped hospital room as they swore to fight for a better England with Liam as its king. The country now is by no means perfect—Zayn himself is living proof of the damage that’s been left by the fight for peace—but people are learning to live differently now, learning to live better. It’s a far cry from the sort of wedding that would have been held here under Simon’s rule.

            “Zayn! There you are,” Louis says as he slips into his seat near the head of the table. “Are you ready to embarrass me in your speech?”

            “You aren’t even ready for what I have to throw at you.”

            Louis sighs. “Scotland?”

            “That’s just the beginning, mate. The tip of the iceberg, if you will.”

            Harry leans over, amused and exasperated. “Are we ever going to find out what happened there?”

            “Definitely not,” Zayn says. “I kept it vague enough that no one would figure it out.”

            “Oh, go to hell.”

            Zayn and Louis exchange wicked grins, as gleeful to be partners in crime as they’ve always been. Liam once said that even though they don’t share any blood, they must be true brothers in spirit, but Zayn and Louis have never needed anyone to tell them that. They found each other in the darkness and stuck with each other through trauma, and that is more powerful than any bond of blood they could have had.

            Zayn’s speech is actually just minimally embarrassing and majorly emotional, but he’s not going to tell Louis that. Better to surprise him with the affection; maybe then Louis will end up crying and Zayn can get some pictures of it for blackmail.

            (Yes, Zayn really does have ulterior motive for everything.)

            “You were great up there,” Zayn tells Liam as Harry and Louis are ambushed by a crowd of well-meaning relatives. “Fucking killed the ceremony, babe.”

            “I was honestly so scared I would mess up and then everyone would remember me as that guy that ruined Harry and Louis’ wedding for the rest of my life,” Liam says. “No one would ever let me marry them ever again.”

            “And what a pity that would be,” Zayn says, rolling his eyes. “Your life would just be over.”

            “Shut up. I was petrified.”

            “I could tell.”

            Liam freezes. “Oh my god, could you really? I was trying so hard to hide it, oh my god, do you think that anyone else could—”

            “I was _joking_ , Jesus Christ. You were great. You killed it.”

            Liam deflates, and then looks indignant. “You arse. I was genuinely worried for a second there.”

            Zayn laughs. “Yeah, I could tell.” He reaches over and squeezes Liam’s hand under the table, where no one will be able to see it. “You’re cute when you’re nervous.”

            Liam’s face softens; no one’s looking at them right now, but Zayn is sure that their relationship is written all over their faces and body language for anyone to see. “I really want to kiss you right now.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Someday, right?”

            “Yeah.” Liam squeezes his hand back and shoots him a smile so warm Zayn can feel it in his bones. “Someday soon.”

***

            Liam wakes up in the middle of the night from a hazy, undefined nightmare that slips out of his head the moment he’s awake. He can’t remember the details—it’s like trying to hold water in his bare hands—but he remembers the terror, the memory of being chased by shadowy figures whose faces he never quite caught a glimpse of. For a moment, he just lies there, covered in sweat and shaking, and then he opens his eyes.

            The first realization he has is that he’s alone in bed.

            The second realization is that there’s a shadowy figure moving towards the foot of the bed.

            Liam is instantly paralyzed in terror.

            Then there’s a loud bump, and the figure stumbles, swearing audibly in Urdu.

            “Zayn?” Liam says, relief flooding his body.

            “Shit, did I wake you up? Sorry, I was just coming back from the bathroom.”

            “I was already awake. Bad dream.”

            “Hey, me too—I woke up and was, like, utterly convinced that I was bleeding, so I went to go check.”

            “And?”

            “I’m totally fine. Like always. Can’t wait for the day when I’m finally over that shit.” Zayn makes it to the bed without any more mishaps and slips in next to Liam, pulling the covers up to his chin. “What was yours?”

            “Can’t really remember, if I’m being honest. I just know I was being chased, and it freaked me out so bad that when I first saw you coming towards the bed I thought you were an intruder.”

            “And you did nothing but lie there? Killer reflexes, babe.”

            “Shut up. I was absolutely terrified before you tripped over your own feet.”

            “It’s _dark_.” Zayn rolls over and tucks himself under Liam’s arm, fingers curling against his chest so gently Liam can barely feel them. “You okay now?”

            “Yeah. It was just a moment. You?”

            “Yeah.” Zayn’s quiet a moment, and then adds, “I’m really good.”

            “ _Really_ good?”

            Liam can hear the grin in Zayn’s voice more than he can see it. “I’ve been doing really good lately, yeah.”

            “Even after tonight?”

            “Even after tonight. That shit is inconvenient but I can deal with it. It passes. It’s not real.  This—” He nudges against Liam’s shoulder “— _this_ is real. I’m doing better with remembering that.”

            Liam smiles softly, brushing a kiss on the top of Zayn’s head. “You want to hear something?”

            “Sure.”

            “I love you.”

            “I already know that,” Zayn says teasingly. “Tell me something I don’t know yet, Liam. Tell me something new.”

            “I want to marry you.”

            There’s a long pause. Then, quietly: “I know that too.”

            Liam swallows. He’s been thinking about this ever since Harry and Louis’ wedding; it’s gotten to the point where he’s overthought it so much that he’s actually terrified. He really shouldn’t be—he knows Zayn will say yes, they’ve talked about it enough to establish that, so there’s nothing to worry about but—it’s in Liam’s nature to worry about things. It’s just the way he is.

            But it is so easy to be brave here in the dark.

            “I have a ring for you.”

            The silence between them is a flower that thrives in the night, opening up until it lays between them, a symbol of the beautiful, fragile thing that is their relationship.

            “I think it’s your turn to tell me something,” Liam says finally.

            “Okay.” Zayn’s voice shakes so slightly that Liam wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t also feeling Zayn’s hands shaking against his. “Okay.”

            “Will you marry me?”

            Zayn’s hands go still, and for a moment Liam is seized with sudden terror again, but then Zayn just laughs and says, “You already know the answer to that one.”

            “Tell it to me anyway.”

            “You know it’s yes,” Zayn whispers, reaching up and pulling Liam’s head down to meet his so they’re forehead-to-forehead, lips brushing when they lean in. Liam has swears he has never felt his heart grow this big in his chest. “A million times over, it’s yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHHHH OK it's over!!! can you believe how far we've come???? when i was rereading the beginning today i was like "wow shit has changed since then this feels like forever ago." i'm super proud and nostalgic and happy but also lowkey my life has lost all meaning but it's cool whatever. 
> 
> OBVIOUSLY i need to thank each and every person who stuck with me through this crazy journey of a fic. i got so much amazing interest and support and just general wonderfulness from so many people during the past few months because of this story, and honestly it's made me tear up on more than a few occasions. there is nothing more important to me than knowing that people genuinely enjoy my work. and some of yall have sent me the sweetest stuff tbh; getting the comments for this fic was always a weekly highlight, and i can't thank anyone who left comments/kudoes/sent me tumblr messages enough, especially those amazing people who were sending long-ass feedback every week. you guys are my faves. this fic has been such an amazing journey that's spanned over 120k words, eight months, and two continents, and I'm going to miss sharing this story with you guys.
> 
> HOWEVER this story is not quite yet done, because if you follow me on [tumblr](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com), you may know that i promised a vlv related surprise today, which i have just published on my tumblr. because so many people commented on it and were interested in it, you can know read the story of what really happened in scotland [here](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com/post/148912831495/what-happened-in-scotland). so if you, like me, are not quite ready to give this fic up, you still have that last bit of extra content to read :D
> 
> thank you so much one more time for being such an amazing crowd of readers; i've talked to so many amazing people because of this fic, and y'all have really made me feel loved and supported all through the wild ride of this fic. i can't think of a bunch of people i'd rather have reading my fic tbh. im honestly so aware of how emotional and over the top i'm being rn but i just love you all so much, and i need!! to make sure!! you know that!!! okAY i'm done thank you so sosososo much for reading and i hope i will see you guys getting lit in the comments of my future fics :D:D:D

**Author's Note:**

> that's all, yo. hope u liked it. sorry if it was a bit slow; first chapters need all the set-up and stuff. but the next chapter is coming soon! I'm gonna try and keep a regular weekly update schedule this time, so hopefully i should be updating next weekend. 
> 
> if you want to get fic previews/updates/maybe spoilers, listen to me complain a lot, or just have a chat or something, come hmu on my [tumblr](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com). follow me or whatever. and if you want to check out/reblog a cool-ass graphic/post for this fic, you can find that [here](http://iambluehead.tumblr.com/post/138359894039/viva-la-vida-by-iambluehead-pairing-zaynliam)
> 
> ok, that's all. thanks for reading and i'll catch you all next week!


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